


Free Falling

by athena_crikey



Series: Superglue [3]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: A/B/O, AU, Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, Gon in his 20s, Hisoka in his 30s, Kidnapping, Killua/Gon is past, Love, M/M, Offscreen violence to children, Rage, Revenge, Sequel, Tension, hormones make us all crazy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25432990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Hisoka's brutality in the arena comes back to haunt his family; for once he and Gon are on the receiving end of another's revenge. It might just be enough to break them.
Relationships: Gon Freecs & Killua Zoldyck, Gon Freecs/Hisoka, Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck
Series: Superglue [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836991
Comments: 238
Kudos: 328





	1. The Long-Awaited Match

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! Let’s go!”

Gon pulls back, smiling, as his pup tries to drag him across the apartment to the door. He’s stronger than any other child in his grade, but he’s nowhere near as strong as Gon. 

“Sotto. The fight doesn’t start for half an hour. Your father just left. There’s plenty of time.”

Sotto turns bright gold eyes up to him, eyes that are brimming with excitement and anticipation. Gon can’t say he’s surprised. The boy has grown up in Heaven’s Arena, surrounded by warriors and martial artists, street fighters and monks. He was able to call TKOs from the age of four, and give textbook odds on fights by the age of six. He knows the fighting style of every competitor who makes it to the 200th floor, knows their strengths and weaknesses and special moves.

But at eight years old, he’s never been to see one of his father’s fights. 

Gon learned the day he caught Sotto trying to juggle kitchen knives that in this household an untrained fighter is much more dangerous than a trained one, and since then both he and Hisoka have been teaching him the basics of fighting. Gon leads with strength over style; Hisoka with skill over strength. Someday, Sotto will have to choose a path for himself from among those options or forge a new one, but for now he’s just a sponge, soaking up his parents’ combined wisdom. 

Learning to fight is one thing. Seeing his father end a life for the sake of sport is another entirely. Gon has sheltered Sotto from that for as long as he could, but the truth is that Hisoka breaks no laws with his death matches and has dozens of willing opponents a year. He forces no one to pit themselves against him; it’s the challenge that bring them knocking on his door. Just as Gon once had. 

Gon rarely goes to Hisoka’s matches; it seems unfair to Sotto to go when he won’t allow the pup to watch, and besides the fights make him nervous now in a way he never was as a boy. Back in his day in the Arena, he had fought only for himself, and forfeit only himself. Now, he has so much more to lose. 

Instead of sitting through the matches, before each fight he simply asks Hisoka one question: _Will you come home tonight?_

Hisoka’s never answered no, and he’s never not come home. 

Today’s match is an unusual one: Hisoka’s opponent is an omega. Although they rarely have the physical strength to match an alpha (Gon being a notable exception), omegas can be just as deadly – especially when they have their mate or their young to protect. Obviously, that’s not the case in the Arena, but there still are occasional omegas who make their way to the 200th floor on raw skill and incredible nen control. 

The majority of fighters in the Arena are alphas, and their first instinct when pit against an omega is to use their scent to force them to surrender; Gon has heard that the omegas use suppressants and block their noses with tissue doused in aniseed to defend against it and take the alphas unawares. He knows Hisoka won’t make that mistake; he’s been in the arena far too long to be fooled by such tricks. 

“Can’t we go now?” wheedles Sotto, pulling at Gon’s arm. 

Gon runs a hand over the top of his son’s smooth dark green hair, pulled back in a ponytail. His bangs hang down in two thick pieces, framing his pale face. He has Hisoka’s more delicate bone structure, his sharp cheekbones and high forehead. He’ll be a handsome young man someday soon. 

“Okay,” agrees Gon, although it’s still twenty minutes before the start of the match. He lets Sotto pull him out of the apartment and into the hall where he locks up, then around to the front doors of their arena. 

It’s packed with people like Hisoka’s matches always are; Hisoka’s popular for the show he puts on and the blood he spills, not his personality. Sotto makes a thrilled noise as he sees the rows and rows of fans packed in, many with food or drinks. The Arena is excellent at marketing its fights as entertainment; betting happens up to the last minute, merchandise is sold, and food and drink are available in all venues. 

Gon ushers Sotto down the steep steps to the front row, then along past seasons ticket holders to the empty seats reserved for them. They’re only one step up from the ring here, so close blood occasionally splatters this far. 

Hisoka had insisted on prime seating. 

The ring is still empty, the platforms leading to the fighters’ entrances not yet raised. 

“Sanda is best at hand-to-hand combat,” says Sotto, naming Hisoka’s rival for today. “He’s real fast, and his daggers are great at quick hits. Do you think Hisoka will fight from a distance? Or use nen to steal the daggers? Or fight hand-to-hand anyway?”

“I don’t know,” replies Gon. They’ve taught Sotto to call both of them by name in the Arena, where there are plenty of people with grudges. Not that most don’t know Sotto’s parentage, or couldn’t guess it from the unique colour of his eyes. The fact that the Grim Reaper has a son is common knowledge. “His unpredictability is one of his strong points. But Sotto, you remember – this isn’t a game. They’re both putting their lives at stake.”

“I know. Fa – Hisoka will win, though. He always wins.” He says it with absolute confidence, eager eyes focused on the ring. 

“Anything can happen in a fight. Confidence is important, but over-confidence is a weakness. When we fought, I used Hisoka’s confidence against him and surprised him.”

Sotto looks over at him; he’s heard this story before. “But you didn’t win, though.”

Gon smiles softly. “No. I’ve never beaten Hisoka.” Without his nen, he never will. He’s come to peace with it; he no longer wants supremacy in combat. With his mate and his son he’s found the happiness that for a long time seemed permanently out of reach. The happiness Ging never found with him. 

Where he once envied his father, now he feels mostly sadness and pity. Ging has had an amazing life, but he’s lived it alone. 

In the arena the lights go down, the crowd hushing. “It’s starting, it’s starting,” hisses Sotto, squirming in his seat. Cocco’s voice fills the arena over the speaker system: “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves for today’s floor master challenge! In the red corner, the challenger: Sanda!” 

A huge cloud of smoke billows up, shot through with lasers. From out of it walks a small man, petite but with snapping eyes and light steps. His brown hair is cut short except for one long tail that reaches nearly to his waist; his clothes are loose blue cotton designed for ease of movement. Around his waist he has a black belt filled with glittering daggers. 

“And in the blue corner, the defending floor master: Hisoka!”

Sotto sits up in his seat and screams with the crowd as his father steps out of the plumes of smoke. As always, Hisoka is tall, elegant and deadly, his eyes keen even at this distance. 

“Well, what do you think folks? Can Heaven’s Arena’s very own Grim Reaper hold his title? Or can this feisty omega wrestle victory away from the favoured alpha? Hisoka has already killed seven challengers this year, but Sanda had an unprecedented streak of fourteen victories on the 200th floor before challenging a floor master. I hope you’ve placed your bets, because this is going to be one for the books!”

Gon watches as Sanda walks into the ring, back straight and strides even. No show of fear or nerves. His blue eyes are restive as he watches Hisoka stride into the ring. 

In the crowd on the opposite side of the ring something catches his eye. There’s a woman with long dark hair seated alone in the middle of a group of braying men clutching beer cups; she’s tall and well-built, impressive but not beautiful. Her eyes, watching Sanda, are full of anxiety. 

Gon’s hands fist. He wouldn’t have cared when he was a kid, would have had eyes only for the match – just like Sotto. But he cares now, cares that this woman will likely leave here bereft. 

Hisoka and Sanda reach the centre of the ring where the ref is waiting for them. “No time limit, fight is to the death,” he announces; they both nod. He steps back and raises his hand. “Begin!” 

Sanda immediately launches a knife at Hisoka; the magician reaches up and plucks it out of the air easily, holding the blade between his two fingers. Then he tosses it up in the air, catches it, and whips it back at Sanda. The omega dodges to the side, running along the edge of the ring and pulling two more daggers into his hands. These he holds in his fists, handles hidden and sharp blades glinting in the spotlights. 

Sanda turns on a dime and rushes Hisoka, launching a close attack to pummel at the magician with his fists, blades out. Hisoka deflects each blow, both of them moving at the speed of instinct. Then Hisoka kicks up, his heel level with his chin, and Sanda leaps back to avoid it. 

There’s a pause; the audience screams while the fighters catch their breath, the fans cheering for their favourites. Sotto’s leaning forward in his chair, shoulders tense and hands fisted; he’s muttering under his breath: “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”

So far, if Sanda has used nen it’s been unnoticeable, and Gon wonders what his ability is and when he’s saving it for. Hisoka produces a card and tosses it across the ring; Sanda dodges it with a roll and comes up running, leaping back in for another close-quarters attack. 

This time as with the last, Hisoka deflects the blows before they land, pushing aside the blades. Then, as Gon watches, one shoots out like a spear and pierces Hisoka’s right shoulder. The knife has extended, its grip still held tight in Sanda’s fist.

“Oho!” shouts Cocco over the speakers, “the challenger has first blood! Hisoka’s looking worried now.”

Sotto stares as Hisoka leaps back, blood oozing out to stain the shoulder of his peach-coloured outfit, the magician’s face hard. “I don’t understand – what happened? He dodged it!”

“They’re nen-blades,” replies Gon. “Sanda is a conjuror. He can control their length. He must have been saving this trick for this fight.”

“Then Father should steal them with Bungee Gum,” says Sotto, eyes wide, body tense.

“You can’t steal conjured weapons,” replies Gon. “They disappear, and more can simply be conjured.”

“But,” begins Sotto, distressed.

“Watch,” says Gon.

Sanda has leapt backwards, putting distance between himself and Hisoka. He pulls knives from his belt and, holding them between his fingers, tosses them at Hisoka. The magician spreads his legs and pulls his hands apart – although Gon can’t see it, he knows Hisoka is creating a shield of Bungee Gum. The knives hit his elastic nen and hang in the air for a moment before disappearing. 

Hisoka produces a hand of cards and throws them; Sanda leaps into a dive-roll to avoid them and comes up smoothly. But Gon has been watching Hisoka, not the challenger, and he’s seen Hisoka’s fingers snap out. He springs forward like a cat, and when Sanda tries to run he finds himself glued to the floor, barely able to retain his balance. Hisoka has used Bungee Gum to trap him. 

Hisoka launches a wave of hard punches. Sanda, caught off-guard and off-balance by his trapped feet, only manages to block some of them. His head and body shudder as Hisoka’s blows land. 

“The Grim Reaper is getting some of his own back now,” announces Cocco. “He traps Sanda and takes the opportunity to land a storm of blows on him! Sanda’s on the defensive now, and unable to move his feet.”

Sanda produces a nen-blade in each hand and strikes back at Hisoka, the conjured steel flashing. Rather than dodging Hisoka again uses a shield of Bungee Gum, ripping the blades from Sanda’s hands. He snaps forward, grabs both the omega’s wrists, and slams them together. 

And together they stay, trapped by Bungee Gum.

And suddenly this is no longer a fight, it’s Hisoka’s game.

Sanda conjures a blade and tries to saw away the Bungee Gum trapping his hands, but the blade gets stuck in the thick, sticky nen and he loses his grip on it. His hands are sweaty, his face starkly white. 

“Sanda! Sanda!” 

Gon’s eyes flash to the dark-haired woman in the audience. She knows as well as he does how this is going to end. Her hands are at her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. 

Hisoka’s smiling now, a wide, lazy grin. He produces a card and circles around slowly behind the shuddering Sanda, putting a hand on his shoulder. What he whispers into the man’s ear Gon can’t hear, but Sanda lowers his head: broken. 

Gon looks at Sotto; he’s staring at the scene in the arena, eyes wide. Gon feels his heart constrict. He’s so young to be here, so young to learn the way the world works. 

The way his father works. 

Hisoka draws his card across Sanda’s throat; blood gushes out, red and wet. In the audience, the dark-haired woman screams. 

Sotto sits quietly and watches Hisoka step back, watches the corpse of his opponent fall to the ground. Watches his father lick the blood from his card. 

All around them, the audience is cheering and booing, victors applauding and losers groaning. On the stage Hisoka beams as, at his feet, blood slowly pools. 

On the other side of the ring, the dark-haired woman weeps.

  
***

Back in the apartment Gon prepares dinner while Sotto swoops around with some of Hisoka’s cards, making whooshing sounds and throwing them like knives. Unlike Hisoka’s, they flutter harmlessly to the ground.

“When can I learn nen? It’s so awesome – I wanna learn! And I’ll have a super-cool power like Bungee Gum, and no one’ll be able to beat me.”

“No one’s invincible,” says Gon, smiling. “Part of learning to fight is being prepared to lose, and come back stronger.” 

“I’m gonna be strong like Father, and I’ll have my own floor, or maybe just go on adventures all the time, and I’ll protect you like he does.” He stops running when he reaches Gon’s side, beaming up at him. 

Gon looks down into his bright face, unaffected by the death he witnessed earlier, by the consequences of failure. “You can do what you want to, so long as you work for it,” he says. 

“I wanna quit school and train full time,” says Sotto, not for the first time. 

Gon cuts a slice of red pepper and leans down, sticking it in his son’s mouth. “Not yet. Not until you’re older,” he replies. 

“Da-aad,” groans Sotto, around the pepper. 

Further protests are cut off by the front door opening. Hisoka strolls in like a conquering hero despite his bloody shoulder, his smile sharp and satisfied. 

Sotto swallows the pepper and dashes over. “You won! He had nen-knives and tricks and, and speed, but you didn’t even care! You’ve gotta teach me nen, Father! Please!”

“Hmm. Do I?” purrs Hisoka, bending slightly and running his thumb over Sotto’s cheek, nail scratching lightly against the skin. “And what would you do with that skill?”

“I’d use it to be the best floor master there’s ever been! Or to become a Hunter, like you and Dad! Or to go sailing and be a pirate, and look for lost treasure!”

“An eclectic mix.” Hisoka herds him forwards into the kitchen to where Gon’s waiting. His eyes rise from his pup’s to his mate’s, his irises bright burnished gold. “What do you say?” he asks, leaning in. He smells of bubble gum and sweaty silver, of hunger and desire. He’s close enough that Gon can feel the warmth of his breath on his cheek, can feel a twist of arousal low in his gut. Hisoka’s always been turned on by violence, and his excitement rubs off on Gon.

“Not until he’s older,” replies Gon, refusing to react to Hisoka’s scent. 

“Hear that, pup?” Hisoka turns to their son. 

“But Father –”

“Besides,” continues Hisoka, “I will not teach nen to one who does not have a specific purpose. Your dreams are too nebulous to whet your perseverance. And a skill half-learned can be more dangerous than one never attempted.”

Sotto pouts, and Hisoka laughs. “Your puppy dog eyes are no good against me, whelp. When the time is ripe, you will learn. Not before. Now go clean yourself; I can still smell melted butter and beer on you.”

Frowning forlornly, Sotto disappears, and Hisoka turns back to his mate. “I will not wait forever to teach him,” he says quietly into Gon’s ear, pulling him against his firm body. Gon closes his eyes, leaning back against the magician.

“I know. But he’s not ready yet. He’s only eight, Hisoka.”

“Years are meaningless. He will have all he needs soon. He did well in the arena today, didn’t he?”

Gon sighs and nods. “Yeah.”

“Your fears of his being too soft were unfounded. He is my son; he is strong already.”

“I know.”

“He won’t be a pup forever.”

“I know that, too.” Gon opens his eyes and looks up at his mate. “Hisoka?”

The magician’s eyes glitter in the late-afternoon light. “Hm?”

“I want another. Another pup.”

“Do you? The first nearly killed you.” He runs the pad of his thumb along Gon’s stomach, tracing the scars beneath his shirt. 

“I would be more careful. _We_ would be more careful. Right?”

Hisoka looks thoughtful, considering. “Would we?”

“Yes. I’m not going to take risks with my health this time – not even if you’re angry with me.”

“It was never _you_ I took issue with,” replies Hisoka.

“Then we’ll find another doctor – a beta or an omega. Someone you can trust. Leorio could recommend someone good.”

Hisoka’s scent is growing stronger, hungrier. Gon can taste the arousal on his tongue. Hisoka’s hand on his stomach is reaching lower, fingers slipping beneath his waistband. “You’ve given this a lot of thought,” he breathes. 

“Un. I love Sotto; I want another baby to love. He’s old enough now that he could help to take care of it, too. A little brother or sister would be good for him; he’s alone too much here in the Arena.”

“And does my opinion matter?” asks Hisoka wryly. 

“You want one. I can tell.” He squirms as Hisoka’s hand cups the front of his boxers, body softening against Hisoka’s steely grip. “Hisoka,” he moans. “Please?”

“Mm,” Hisoka leans in to press a bite to Gon’s mark. “How could I refuse?”


	2. Dreams

“You don’t play fair,” complains Sotto, hanging upside-down over the ring, suspended by the ankles with Bungee Gum. 

It’s the weekend and Gon’s sitting in the front row again, but now the rest of the arena is silent and empty. It’s just him, Sotto and Hisoka here today. He has a first-aid kit, as well as a thermos with iced tea in it and some sandwiches for later. 

“Fair?” purrs Hisoka, jerking his fingers so that Sotto bounces slightly, hands trailing just above the cement-slab floor. “Whatever made you think I would? There is no fairness in life, no almighty referee waiting to call a match because the hit-count has reached ten. Expecting fairness from your opponent is a quick route to losing. Expecting mercy is a quick route to death,” he adds with a smile. 

Gon knows Hisoka inside and out by now, knows his scents and moods, and can to a degree predict his actions. He sees his mate telegraph his intentions with a slight twist of his heel, and he smiles to see that Sotto notices it too. The pup pulls himself up into a ball just as Hisoka releases Bungee Gum, and falls to land smoothly on the floor, rolling away immediately and scrambling to his feet. 

He’s still ungainly in his movements, coltish and unpolished. It will be a few years before he can truly control his body, can turn it into the weapon Hisoka expects. For now he’s learning the foundations of combat: how to predict his enemy’s movements, how to turn a blow to lessen its impact, how to dodge and roll without injury. 

He and Hisoka move through what seems almost to be a choreographed dance, Hisoka striking and kicking as Sotto blocks and dodges. Occasionally he tries to launch an attack, but he understands the purpose of this training isn’t to make him into a fighter, it’s to keep him alive against a stronger opponent. 

Sotto has strong stamina and pain tolerance, takes kicks and blows that would make a grown man surrender. He’s getting better at reading Hisoka, rolling under jabs and speeding past lunges that even two weeks ago would have floored him. When he does go down he climbs back up, golden eyes bright and focused. 

Occasionally Hisoka bores of playing nice and uses Bungee Gum to catch Sotto and draw him in for a blow. With Sotto unable to see nen, his only hope of dodging is by reading Hisoka’s movements, and Hisoka isn’t always considerate enough to telegraph his plans beforehand.

_Rough play_ , the magician calls it with a pleased smile. _Pain is the best teacher._

Whether or not that’s true, it’s indisputable that Sotto’s learning. But he still has a long way to go. 

As Sotto dodges a blow by a hair’s breadth and then snaps back with a sharp kick that Hisoka deflects with his forearm, Gon stands. The two separate, and he springs over the barrier separating the seats from the flat surrounding of the ring. 

“That’s enough for today. Come get lunch,” he calls. Sotto instantly breaks form, straightening and beaming. He sprints for the edge of the ring, only to spring backwards, feet flying off the ground; Hisoka is holding him back with a cord of Bungee Gum attached to the back of his shirt. 

“Forgetting something?” he asks, eyes hooded.

Sotto catches himself and turns, sheepish. “May I go?” he asks. Hisoka looks at him, considering, his blue-painted nails tapping against his cheek. Sotto squirms, eager for lunch. Finally Hisoka nods. 

“Dismissed,” he says. Sotto whoops and shoots off to the edge of the ring, where he scrambles down and comes hurtling at Gon. Gon catches him easily, basket with sandwiches on the ground. He smells of sweat and very faintly of blood, just tiny scratches today. Layered over that is the smells of soap and shampoo, and finally Hisoka’s scent marking. Pups have no scent of their own until they reach sexual maturity, and Gon smooths his hand over Sotto’s hair to leave behind a little of his own scent on the boy. Their mingled smells on their pup makes him feel contented.

Sotto’s already bending to dig into the basket to see what’s been packed; on the raised platform of the ring Hisoka strides over, heels clicking on cement. He steps neatly off the edge, landing on the floor some five feet down with ease, and comes over to peer down over Sotto’s shoulder into the basket. 

Gon’s always had a sensitive nose; since presenting it’s become more attuned to the smells of individuals but has remained sharp overall. He can smell the sweet scent of pickles and the hard crumbly odor of cheese, the sunny ripeness of tomatoes and the richness of ham. There are also cups and plates, and a hat for Sotto if it’s sunny.

“Ready to go?” he asks. 

Sotto nods; Hisoka shrugs. Gon grabs the basket and leads the way out of the arena and down the hall to the elevator. 

There’s a wide greenspace to the south behind the Arena; towering oaks and elms have been planted for shade, and the grass grows thick and green and fragrant. Sotto runs ahead to find a spot for their picnic while Gon and Hisoka walk behind, Gon scenting the sweetness of the small stream that runs nearby. Apart from their apartment it’s his favourite place near the Arena, somewhere so close to natural that he can almost fool himself into thinking he’s back on Whale Island, or lost in the wilderness somewhere far abroad. There are mice and rabbits living in the hillocks, and butterflies and dragonflies in the air despite it being only April. 

It feels serene. 

“He’s getting better at reading you,” says Gon as they walk, Hisoka’s steps silent beside him. 

“At reading someone who makes no attempt to hide his intentions,” corrects Hisoka. “How he will do against a real opponent remains to be seen.”

“He’s not fighting a real opponent, he’s learning the basics.”

“His instincts should suffice for that. You mastered _zetsu_ without anyone to teach you, purely through necessity.”

“That’s different. I grew up in nature, learning to hunt and fish and watch animals without being seen. Hiding my presence was second nature to me.”

“Sotto has grown up surrounded by fighters, observing matches since he was young. Should fighting not be second nature to him?”

“Watching is different than doing. That’s why we train,” replies Gon. It’s a conversation they’ve had before. 

“If he cannot pick up a skill by observing it, there is little hope for him.”

“He’s already dodging moves you showed him for the first time last week. He’ll be plenty strong, Hisoka. But strength isn’t everything. I want him to stay in school, learn the things we never did.”

“We have survived without algebra and grammar classes,” replies the magician, shading his eyes with his long hand. It’s a bright day, the sun warm although not yet summer-hot. 

“If he wants to be a hunter, or to fight in the Arena, that’s fine. But he should have that choice. I never even knew there _was_ a choice, until it was too late.”

Hisoka’s golden eyes meet his. “Are you unhappy?”

“You know I’m not. But…”

“But?”

Gon smiles up at him. “Sotto is his own person. We shouldn’t assume we know what will make him happy.”

Hisoka snorts, but says nothing more. Up ahead Sotto throws himself down on the grass and rolls, laughing. 

“I think we’re here,” says Gon, and sets down the basket. “Sotto, come get your hat and help me unpack.”

  
***

“Father?”

Lunch is finished, the paper wrappings of the sandwiches balled up in the basket, and the tea cups empty. Hisoka is lying on a gentle hill, his hands woven behind his head, eyes closed. Gon’s watching a robin pop in and out of its nest in a nearby tree, slightly anxious at the presence of people so near to its home. Sotto, hat tilted back on his head and sun shining brightly on his fair skin, is sitting near Hisoka’s feet, picking blades of grass and making them sing like nightingales the way Gon taught him to last summer. 

At his pup’s call, Hisoka’s eyes slide lazily open; he doesn’t otherwise respond. 

“Why do you kill everyone you fight?”

Gon’s eyes drop from the nest he’s been watching, falling to his son. His question is heartfelt, not naïve. 

“I have spared many opponents,” replies Hisoka slowly. “Those who show promise, those who may be of interest later. Those I am drawn towards.” His eyes glide to Gon, who feels his heart give a heavy beat. “Know this, Sotto: Death is a privilege, and dealing it out is a prize to be valued above all others. To those willing to step into my realm, I offer them that opportunity. My fights are all the sweeter for the stakes I charge. And if they are not strong enough, I take the privilege for myself. There is no greater thrill.”

Sotto is quiet for a minute. Then: “Daddy doesn’t think so,” he says. 

Hisoka’s eyebrow arches upwards. “Oh?”

“He doesn’t kill people. He’s nice to everyone, even Jona,” says Sotto, naming his rival in school. “Even _Jona’s parents_ ,” he adds, as though there were no greater atrocity. 

Hisoka’s smile is cut-glass. “You underestimate him,” he says quietly. 

Sotto’s eyes are big, the yellow of them bright as buttercups. 

“Death is the one thing you can never take back, no matter how much you want to,” says Gon, his tone even. “There’s no going back from killing someone, Sotto. Even if you learn that it was a mistake, even if you regret it. You’ve ended someone’s life. To deserve that… there are very few people who do. But I have killed, and I don’t regret it.”

“Who did you kill, Dad?”

“Some very dangerous people who wanted to destroy the world. And one who did something terrible to Uncle Kite.” 

Sotto blinks, looking worried. “Uncle Kite?” 

“They hurt him very badly. I thought… I thought he was dead. And I killed the person who did that to him.”

“But he wasn’t dead,” says Sotto.

“No, he wasn’t. But I learned how powerful the need for revenge is – it can wipe out everything else. Everything. The choices we make while we’re that blind aren’t always good. Your father and I, we both know what it’s like to _need_ to hurt someone. If you’re lucky, you never will.” He pulls Sotto in and rubs his cheek against his son’s struggling head. 

“Da-ad,” he protests, squirming free. Gon laughs and stands. 

“Okay, enough of that. Let’s go home and have some ice cream.”

“Yeah!”

  
***

Hisoka makes dinner, spicy wraps with cool guacamole and sour cream to dip them in. When they’re done Sotto scrambles off to his room to play video games and Gon cleans up. Hisoka’s lingering nearby, his scent sweet like amaretti cookies. Gon smells it growing stronger as his mate slowly creeps in, Gon rinsing the dishes and stacking them in the drying rack. When he finishes and turns to wipe his hands off Hisoka’s right behind him, his arms wrapping around Gon.

“You’ve stopped the birth control,” he murmurs into Gon’s ear, voice low and seductive. 

Gon blinks. “You can smell that?”

Hisoka snorts. “I saw the packets in the trash.” He draws a sharp nail over Gon’s collarbone, arousal hanging thick in the air; it tastes of sweet almond powder. 

“It will take a few days for them to flush out of my system,” says Gon as Hisoka presses closer, his breath hot on Gon’s ear. “But by my next heat…”

“Mm, I don’t care to wait that long.” Hisoka runs his tongue along the curve of Gon’s ear; the hot wetness makes Gon shiver back into his grip, breath catching in his throat. “Come along.” He turns Gon abruptly to face him and lifts him, Gon’s legs automatically wrapping around his waist. Hisoka’s hands creep up his thighs, fingers digging into his ass through the loose material of his trousers; Gon’s eyelashes flutter, heat pounding through him.

Hisoka carries him across the apartment into their room, pausing to lock the door behind him, and then drops Gon, pushing him up against the wall. His kisses are hot and open-mouthed, his tongue in Gon’s mouth, running over his lips, seeking contact. His thumb rises to stroke Gon’s mark and the omega gasps into the kiss, arousal pumping through his body, his cock aching and his ass growing damp. He can feel his body melting against his mate, feel the scent his glands release to draw his alpha to him, to make him mad for him. Hisoka growls and forces his knee between Gon’s legs, pushing it up until it reaches his groin and grinding there. 

Gon throws his head back and pants for breath, giving Hisoka open access to his throat. The magician licks and bites at the sensitive skin there, lapping Gon’s rich scent from his glands and driving him into a haze of ecstasy. Hisoka’s hands are at his belt, pulling his pants open and shoving them down, Gon’s hips twitching. 

Sometimes Hisoka likes gradual build-ups, likes to tease the orgasm out of him slow and sweet as molasses, but Gon already knows this isn’t one of those times. Gon can tell he’s hungry in a way that makes Gon’s stomach twist with love, wants to fill him with his seed and get him round and heavy with pup. Gon groans as Hisoka palms at his dick through his boxers. His fingers reach up and rip the shirt from the magician’s back. Hisoka’s too lust-drunk to care, sucking hickies into Gon’s skin, nails digging into his thighs and ass. 

“ _Hisoka_ ,” groans Gon, spreading his legs, his ass hungry to be filled, his cock desperate for attention. “ _C’mon. Please_.” He’s holding onto his mate as if for balance despite the fact that he’s pinned to the wall, his hands spread over Hisoka’s naked flanks, the heels of his palms pressing into hard abs. Hisoka makes a low sound in his throat and slips his hands in under the waistband of Gon’s boxers, fingers digging into the globes of his ass, pulling them apart. 

Gon’s breathing hard, and Hisoka’s knee is back between his legs for him to rut against, the pressure a delicious, delightful contrast to the feeling of being pulled open from behind. Then Hisoka is stepping back, is turning him to face the wall. His boxers are yanked down abruptly over his aching cock; there’s a rustle of cloth from behind and then Hisoka’s pressed his chest against Gon’s back, is rubbing his half-hard cock against Gon’s ass and moaning. His hands are over Gon’s hips, holding him steady as he frots himself against Gon. 

Gon pulls an arm up to lean his forehead against as Hisoka’s cock slides over his ass, occasionally slipping into the crack but never deep enough to penetrate him. Hisoka’s fingernails bite into the front of his hips, then start to draw themselves down towards his cock, tracking lines into his skin. Hisoka’s breath on the back of his neck is hot, occasionally he descends to lick the knob of Gon’s spine, his teeth nipping at the thin skin there. 

The magician’s fingers reach the base of his cock and his right hand slips forward to grip Gon’s member tightly, so tight he gasps and bucks his hips. Hisoka laughs breathily and holds him encircled between his thumb and first finger, his other fingers pressing down to skirt over Gon’s balls. Then he’s drawing his hand out along the tight, throbbing heat of Gon’s prick. Gon lowers his head into his arm, panting. 

He’s so caught up with the pressure on his dick that he doesn’t immediately notice Hisoka’s hips pulling away from his, or his left hand disappearing. A moment later, though, he feels the press of something thick and rubbery between his cheeks: Hisoka’s transformed the fingers of his left hand into a dildo using Bungee Gum.

It’s a trick the alpha brought out not long after Sotto was born, when Gon was still too fragile for a hard fucking but hungry for something inside him. What started simply has grown over the years and with Hisoka’s passion for sex; he can create ridges and valleys, can even grow knobs to press into Gon’s prostate. His hand-fucks can get Gon off in minutes, his enjoyment at his power immense. 

Tonight he produces ridges but nothing more complicated, fucking Gon’s ass with his nen while Gon keens and thrusts into his other hand, undone by pleasure. The sensation of Hisoka’s nen-toy inside him is fantastic; not quite so thick as his mate’s cock, but as the ridges move in and out each push drives a wave of pure bliss through him. 

Pressure is building up inside him, filling him with need, desire burning like gasoline over his nerves. Hisoka takes his hand away from his dick and Gon moans needily, heartbeat racing, sweat beading at his hairline. Then the nen-toy disappears from his hole, Hisoka leaning in close to lick teasingly at his mark. Gon cries out, body bereft and so full of want, so hungry for release. He’s panting and shivering, overwhelmed with sensation, his skin so sensitive every breath of Hisoka’s on his back feels like a blow. 

“Mm, hungry, aren’t we?” purrs Hisoka against his ear, still not touching him, and Gon wants to cry at the frustration, at the burgeoning desire that’s burning inside him. “What do you want, Gon? Do you want my tongue? My fingers? My cock? Do you want me to fuck you until you can’t stand? You look _delectable_ right now, you know. I just want to eat you up.”

“Hisoka, please,” he begs, his voice close to sobbing. The sharp tips of Hisoka’s nails ghost over the peak of his ass, stroking him. He shivers, back arching. 

“Please what?” wonders the magician, nails digging in just enough to prick him. 

“Fuck me. Please – oh please, Hisoka.” His heartbeat is ringing in his ears, is thrumming in his core, is throbbing in his hungry prick. 

“Why?” asks Hisoka, and Gon’s eyes slide open, confused. Then he realises what the alpha wants to hear.

“Give me a pup,” he groans. “Fill me up. Get me pregnant.”

“Mmm _yes_ ,” groans the magician, and without warning he thrusts in – hard and fast and completely, so that Gon gasps soundlessly at the suddenness of it. His chin is up, his head back as Hisoka takes him, fucks into him, his fingers digging into Gon’s hips once more. 

For several minutes they pant together, Gon feeling his orgasm slowly building, his body filling to the brim with pressure while Hisoka gasps and moans and ruts into him. When he’s finally ready – so ready, so so ready – to come he reaches down and grasps his own dick, whimpering at the explosion of ecstasy at the touch. It only takes a few pulls to send him over the edge, his body tightening and his hole stiffening against Hisoka’s hot cock. The alpha groans and thrusts up into him, slams them together utterly and gives small, gasping rocks. Then he’s spilling with a gleeful moan that ends in a bite to Gon’s shoulder, his arms wrapping around Gon’s stomach and drawing them together as he empties himself into his mate. 

When it’s done they stagger back to the bed, Gon dripping wetness down his shaking legs, Hisoka following and licking the sweat from the nape of his neck. Gon’s growing rapidly cold from the sweat and pulls the duvet cover over both of them, flopping back onto the bed. 

“It would be nice to have a little girl,” he muses.

“Would it?”

Gon turns to look at Hisoka, who is staring at the ceiling, golden eyes dull with afterglow. 

“You don’t think so?”

“I leave the whelps to you,” replies Hisoka. “A boy has been tolerable.”

“One of each would be nice. And Aunt Mito could buy her dresses, and Kite could do her hair.”

Hisoka snorts. Gon curls up against him and dreams of the future.


	3. Nightmare

The weekend passes and bleeds into the week, the weather remaining sunny and fair. Gon sends Sotto off to school with his hat to protect his pale skin, which despite his entreaties comes back more often in Sotto’s knapsack than on his head. 

Although raising a child has taken up a fair portion of his time, with Sotto in school now Gon’s found himself freer that is comfortable. He’s started to take up monthly projects, knowing himself well enough to know that his attention isn’t likely to hold for much longer than that.

April is herb gardening. He spent the first week building a wooden herb box on raised, splayed legs like a sawhorse, the box positioned beside their south-facing windows to garner maximum sun. Last week he bought a mixture of compost and soil and filled the box; today he goes to the garden store and picks out plants. 

Gon’s gotten better at cooking since he became a parent, but his default is still simple meals of mostly grilled meat. Hisoka is much more elaborate in the kitchen, making dishes from all sorts of different cuisines based on experiences he only sometimes willingly shares. Gon has a list from him of the herbs he wants. 

The garden store is a long wooden building that smells delicious, of sun-warmed plants and leaf mould and moisture. It’s filled with pots and seeds and cacti and succulents, as well as stuff that’s more decorative than useful: statues and birdbaths and fancy wind chimes. Wide doors open onto a big lot behind the store where all the outdoor plants are. There are fruit trees and deciduous trees and firs in the back, and rows and rows of roses and perennials in big black buckets, and now that spring has come the space near the doors has been filled with bright bursting flowers of all colours, lush and vibrant as a rainbow. 

Off down one aisle are vegetable starters and herbs; Gon walks slowly down the path smelling of damp earth and green stuff, reading the labels on the small herb plants. Oregano and parsley, tarragon and thyme, lemongrass and chives, and savoury-smelling sage. He pulls out Hisoka’s list and starts stocking his basket with plants, smelling each and smiling at their fresh fragrances. When he’s picked out all the ones his mate requested he fills the last space in the basket by smell, nosing through each plant until he finds the ones whose smell he likes the best: rosemary and basil. The rosemary tickles his nose with its strong woody scent; the basil is brisk and clean. 

He pays for his purchases and heads back up the hill to the Arena with them nestled in a cardboard box along with some dissolvable fertilizer and a watering can. 

Back at the apartment Hisoka is reading the paper; his eyes track Gon across the room as he heads for the plant box, but he doesn’t move. One by one Gon digs into the soft, sun-warmed earth and makes little holes for his plants, then transposes them into their new homes. He pats down the dirt to make a firm surface, the herbs bright and healthy shades of green. When they’re all there he waters them, careful not to splash any over the sides. 

Already he can smell their gentle scents, reminiscent of Aunt Mito’s garden back on Whale Island, of hours spent with her planting herbs and vegetables and flowers, learning the language of growing things. Learning what a thirsty plant looks like, or one that’s sunburnt, or one too crowded by its neighbours. He runs his fingers through the leaves now, smiling.

  
***

That afternoon Hisoka goes out to a floor masters’ meeting and Gon settles in to read a book he borrowed from the library on indoor gardening. The sun is shining in on the apartment’s wooden floor like a golden carpet, the room bright and airy.

It’s only when he begins to get hungry that he realises it’s past three thirty, the time he and Sotto usually have afternoon snacks. He gets up and cuts up some vegetables from the crisper, building little piles of carrots and cauliflower and peppers and filling a small bowl with dip. All the while he glances at the door, waiting for Sotto to come in.

But he doesn’t come. Gon finishes chopping the snack and puts it away in the fridge. Sotto sometimes stops in stores on his way home, goes to the model train shop or the toy store. Gon goes back to the sofa and sits, opening his book again.

He can’t focus on the words, keeps glancing up at the clock, over at the door. Sotto’s never this late. Finally when he’s read the same sentence three times over he closes the book and goes to put on his shoes. Sotto always follows the same route home; he can meet him on his way home, can laugh off this sudden uncomfortable anxiety. 

Gon takes the elevator down to the main floor and out a side entrance only residents have access to, which allows egress in the direction of Sotto’s school. The school itself is only three blocks away, close enough that this year he felt comfortable in allowing Sotto to go on his own. 

Outside the sun is still shining, shadows lying dark on the pale pavement. Gon walks slowly, eyes sharp, watching for his son. He looks in the windows of the stores he passes – the barber where Sotto gets his long hair trimmed, the bookstore where they buy their books, the bakery where Gon got Sotto’s birthday cake last year. 

His pup isn’t in any of them.

He passes on, ears pricked for the sound of Sotto’s voice, nose seeking his scent. The air is full of different odors, of the harsh abrasive reek of strutting alphas and the softer withdrawing smell of omegas, as well as the smells of the city: tar, exhaust, rust and paint. He looks in the model train store, and the toy store, and the children’s clothing store. There are parents and kids in them, some he even thinks he recognizes from Sotto’s school. But his son isn’t in any of them. 

He’s frowning now, shoulders rising slightly. His knuckles are stiff, fingers fisting at his sides. Sotto’s been out of school for an hour. He knows to come home before going to a friend’s house. Knows to tell Gon if he wants to go to a park or a playground after school. His skin is growing hot as his temperature rises, as his teeth grit against each other. 

Surely he’s silly to worry. Surely Sotto just stayed late at school, or is fooling around with his friends. 

Surely. 

Gon reaches the schoolyard and sees some children still playing on the jungle gym and the slide, others running after each other in a game of tag. One he recognizes from Sotto’s class, a little girl named Plum. He crosses the schoolyard towards her; she sees him coming and stops her game of hopscotch. “Mr Freecss,” she says, smiling.

“I’m looking for Sotto. Is he here?”

She blinks up at him, then shakes his head. “Uh-uh. I think he went home.”

“Did you see him leave?” Gon keeps his tone steady as his chest constricts. 

“He didn’t have any chores after school today. He left early.”

“And he wasn’t with a friend? Maybe going somewhere else?” His ribs are beginning to ache from his effort to breathe normally, to show no sign of alarm, while inside his heart feels like it’s pounding nails into the wall of his chest. 

“Don’t think so,” she says.

“Is there anyone here who would know?”

She looks around. “Maybe Yusu. He’s probably finishing emptying the garbage inside.”

Yusu is one of Sotto’s best friends, a little boy whose parents are bookbinders and whose imagination is as wide as Sotto is strong. Gon nods to Plum and hurries inside, down the red linoleum floor of the school to Sotto’ s classroom. 

Sure enough there are two boys still inside finishing up cleaning – Yusu and another who Gon doesn’t know. They look up as he enters. “Yusu! Is Sotto here?”

The little boy looks blank. “Mr Freecss? No – he went home. He was real hungry and wanted a snack. I wouldn’t let him have mine ‘cause I have to stay late and –”

“You’re sure? He went home?” Gon can’t quite keep the anxiety out of his voice. Yusu nods, eyes wide.

Gon slams out of the classroom, pulling his phone from his pocket. He speed-dials Hisoka, who picks up after several rings. “Mm?”

“Hisoka! Is Sotto home?”

“I’m still in my meeting~” purrs his mate.

“Never mind that! He didn’t come home on time so I went to meet him, but he’s not at school and his friends say he went home. Go see if he’s in the apartment!”

“Pardon, family matters,” says the magician’s muffled voice, presumably to his meeting. Then a door closes and he’s back. Hisoka’s voice is sharp, attentive. “You’re certain he isn’t dawdling?”

“Not for this long.” Gon’s out in the playground in front of the school looking left and right, searching frantically. He knows now that something’s wrong, can feel it down the length of his spine like a shiver. His fingers are grasping, his breath coming in short pants. He needs to find his pup, needs to hold him, to bury his nose in Sotto’s hair and reaffirm his marking. “Where is he? _Where?_ ” His heart is thrumming in his chest, eyes sharpened by adrenaline. He runs down the street in the opposite direction of the Arena searching randomly, desperately. He passes shops and stores, parking lots and a movie theatre. No sign of Sotto. 

“He isn’t here,” says Hisoka suddenly, his voice deceptively calm. 

“Hisoka –” Gon cuts across the street in front of traffic, heedless, ignoring the honks and skidding cars. 

“Where are you?”

“I’m going back to the school. Maybe I can pick up his scent…” Gon’s already running, shoving past pedestrians and dodging cyclists. 

“I’ll meet you there.”

  
***

Gon runs back into the classroom, now empty. He hurries over to Sotto’s desk and leans over the chair, eyes closed. Forces himself to calm, to take deep slow breaths and relax. He reaches up and pinches his nose, concentrating only on his sense of smell.

He smells other alphas, the scent-markings of Sotto’s fellow students. Smells the strong odor of boxed lunches: soy sauce, sausages, fish. And then, as he settles, he smells grapefruit shampoo and lavender soap. Smells Hisoka, very faintly, and his own comforting scent. 

Gon stands and follows it to the lockers at the back of the class, then out the door. Down the hallway and outside. The huge burst of scent and wind and fresh air outside is intense, but he holds steady, keeping hold of the scent like a pale ribbon. 

He sees Hisoka jog up on the other side of the schoolyard fence and holds up his hand, sniffing as he slowly crosses the playground. “Stay back; you’ll contaminate the scent,” he says, and Hisoka backs away downwind of him.

The scent crosses the road at the crosswalk and turns towards the Arena; Gon follows with Hisoka behind. He walks up one block, partially following the scent and partially his route home, and almost misses it when Sotto’s smell turns off the road into a wide alley between two houses. It’s accompanied by a fainter smell of another person. 

And there’s another odor here, one much stronger than Sotto’s scent. One that’s chemically and stinging. 

Chloroform. 

Gon gives a little whine, circling sharply. Sotto’s scent disappears here – it doesn’t go on and it doesn’t double back. It’s simply gone.

_He’s_ simple gone. 

A sudden frantic madness comes over Gon, instincts driving him to search the walls, the ground, tear at the bricks of the house as if Sotto could have passed through them until his fingers are bloody. He runs back and forth between the alley walls searching every inch of it, as though his pup were hidden somewhere. 

Finally Hisoka strides in and grabs his shoulder, pulling him back. 

Gon turns, snarling. He’s furious, frantic, his mind blank except for the need to find his pup. His eyes are so focused from searching the dark alleyway that the bright sunlight burns, and he pulls away. 

“He’s not here,” says Hisoka. 

“He was. He was here. He was here.” He’s breathing hard, whining like a cornered dog. And then, half-mastering himself: “I smell chloroform.”

Hisoka’s eyes narrow. “What else?” He shakes Gon, hard, nails digging into his shoulder. “Focus.”

Gon closes his eyes and breathes deeply. “An alpha. A woman.” The smell is harsh, angry – like sawdust and gasoline. 

“Who?” presses Hisoka, growling. 

He shakes his head slowly. “Don’t know. Don’t know her.”

He lets go of the scents and opens his eyes. Hisoka looks like he’s been carved out of stone, his fine features hard, unyielding. Only his eyes show his rage, his pupils just pin-pricks in bright discs of gold. 

Gon’s breathing hard, his whole body hot with fear and fury. He’s twitching with adrenaline, overflowing with energy, with the need to run, to search, to tear apart anyone who stands between him and Sotto. His fingers are working, his jaw tight from grinding his teeth; his whole body is tight as a whip, ready to snap. 

“We will go back to the apartment,” says Hisoka, after a moment.

Gon stares. “What – no! We have to find him! I have to keep looking, let me _go_ –” He tries to pull away but Hisoka’s grip is steely. 

“Whoever took him wanted him alive. His only value is as a hostage, which means they will communicate with us. We will return to the apartment.”

“Hisoka…” He squirms, desperate and unable to settle in his own skin. 

“Come,” orders the alpha, his scent iron-willed and commanding. He releases Gon and turns, heading out of the alley and up towards the Arena.

Gon follows.

  
***

The apartment is silent, empty.

Gon stares at the sofa where he had tickled Sotto the night before, at the dinner table where they ate their last meal together as a family, at the box of bricks they play with after school. 

The emptiness burns: like electricity, like fire, like _liquid metal_ , scorching him from the inside out. 

Hisoka walks calmly past him, goes to the small basket tucked under a chair where he keeps his paperwork, and pulls out some sheets of paper. He sits down on the sofa and looks at them. 

“ _What_ ,” growls Gon, trembling with a need that burns brighter than a star – the need to find his pup, to hold him, to lick him until only Gon’s scent is on him and he knows no other will ever touch him. “ _are you doing?_ ”

Hisoka doesn’t look up. “This is a list of my fights for the past month. Most likely, whoever took Sotto is seeking some kind of retribution.”

“All your opponents are dead,” replies Gon, flatly, not moving from his place in the entryway. 

“True enough. But their friends and relatives aren’t. Yet,” says Hisoka, tracing a pencil down names and making notes. 

Gon’s fists are tight, so tight he can’t feel his fingers. He walks slowly over, moving stiff as a tin soldier, until he’s standing behind Hisoka looking down at the list. “How does that help?”

“Someone who takes a child rather than challenging me is weak. Perhaps they hired help. There’s plenty of muscle for hire in this city. Plenty of leads to follow.”

Gon is breathing hard as he stares down at the list. Challengers Hisoka broke slowly, who he maimed and then mocked and then killed, taking their lives in front of hundreds of spectators as sport. Challengers who were just as human as he is, who had parents, families, friends. Whose loved ones were left bereft by Hisoka – for his entertainment. 

And now those loved ones have taken what’s most precious to him in revenge. To do what with? They could be hurting Sotto right now, could be taking out their rage on an innocent child. 

On Gon’s son. 

The doorbell rings and Gon moves to answer it. Hisoka however moves faster, flowing past him and pulling open the door. There’s a bellboy from the Arena there with a box in his hands. “Delivery,” he says. 

Hisoka takes the box and glances at the label as he closes the door. “No time for this,” he says, and makes to toss it. 

“Wait,” says Gon, glued to his spot, staring at the box. Hisoka glances at him. “I smell blood.”

The magician’s eyes sharpen. He uses his nails to slice open the tape sealing the box and pulls it open. Reaches inside and pulls out a piece of dark cloth. 

Sotto’s hat. Sotto’s hat, which is stained with blood.


	4. Fall Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I guess I should warn for domestic violence???

Gon darts forward and rips the hat from Hisoka, buries his nose against it. The smell of his pup is strong: the mingled scents of him and Hisoka, of soap and shampoo and detergent. 

And blood. The strong, terrifying reek of copper. 

His lungs are working overtime, bringing the scent of his son mixed with the stench of blood to flood his brain, his sight narrowing further and further until he sees only a tunnel with a pin-prick of light at the end. 

Hisoka says something, his tone low and dangerous, but Gon can hardly hear the words – they sound as though they’re distant, far-off. His heartbeat is pounding in his ears, head filled with the echo of his rage. 

Hisoka is saying something about the smell of the hat. 

He looks down at it, at the navy cotton, the floppy brim, the slight rip from where Sotto nearly lost it climbing a tree last month. He remembers laughter and kisses and stories at bedtime, remembers the weight of his son in his arms and the brightness of his smile. Slowly he raises it to his face again, closes his eyes and soaks in the smell of his pup. 

There’s another, faint odor. Sawdust and gasoline. The same alpha he smelled in the alleyway, and just as unfamiliar. His heckles rise. 

“The same alpha,” he grits out, eyes turning upwards and catching the flash of Hisoka’s golden irises, of the menacingly thin line of his mouth, and not much else. 

There’s a scrabbling sound as the magician dissects the box. He comes up with a small piece of paper, his eyes hardening as he reads it. Gon steps forward, every muscle in his body strained, ready to smite somebody – anybody. Anyone standing between him and his pup. 

_Get ready Hisoka_ , says the note, Gon struggling to piece together meaning from the letters. 

“Pathetic,” says Hisoka, dropping the paper. Gon watches it flutter to the floor, the white of the paper the one strip of brightness in his darkened vision. 

He looks up slowly from the paper to Hisoka’s face. The magician’s eyes are hooded, his mouth drawn back in an ugly sneer. “To threaten me thus,” he begins, tone harsh. 

“To threaten you _with our son_ ,” snarls Gon, his fury boiling over, burning his skin, his tendons, his very bones, and still continuing to froth and seethe within him. “Because you _hurt_ and you _kill_ and now _he’s gone_.” His voice is raw rage, his throat burning. His fingers pierce through the flimsy material of the hat in his grip, shred the soft cotton. 

Hisoka looks at him, face expressionless but eyes burning. “You blame me?”

Gon can barely make out the words, his mind blank except for the beating of his heart and the thrumming of his bottomless need: _Sotto, Sotto, Sotto!_ He draws in a ragged breath, feet sliding apart, shoulders lowering as his jaws lock. Ready to fight, to crush, to destroy anyone responsible for the disappearance of his pup. Anyone to blame for this bloody token, a threat of worse to come. 

“You would challenge me?” grits out Hisoka, his voice low and dangerous. 

“He’s gone _because of you!_ ” Gon snaps forward and swings, putting all his strength and rage into the punch. Hisoka dodges and Gon rips round after him, throwing himself heedlessly after the magician, snarling. 

There is no thought, no planning. His moves are sheer instinct and adrenaline, all his power bottled up and suddenly blasted out without control, without restraint. Hisoka catches his wrist and swings at his ribs; Gon kicks out hard, catching him in the side. Hisoka is sent flying; he twists into a handspring and flips back, back, back, Gon screaming as he pursues him across the apartment. He grabs Hisoka’s arm and throws him into the kitchen island, the wood smashing under the assault. Before Hisoka can get up he’s there, his body moving at the speed of lightning, hammering down blows on the trapped alpha. 

Hisoka blocks and deflects before sweeping his leg out, catching Gon’s ankle; Gon turns his falter into a tumble and kicks forward with both his legs, one booted foot meets Hisoka’s jaw and slams him back into the marble countertop which cracks under the assault. 

Although he can’t see the nen he senses the flick of Bungee Gum coming – his senses honed by years of familiarity, and by Hisoka’s training sessions with Sotto – and dodges, coming up under the attack to thrust a punch strong enough to shatter steel into Hisoka’s ribs; the alpha gasps and spits saliva and blood. 

Gon’s feral instincts rejoice at the pain, the injury of his opponent. But Hisoka isn’t done yet. He gets his feet under him and leaps up, over Gon and towards the windows. Gon spins and careens after him, throwing aside the sofa and coffee table, fabric ripping and wood smashing, books and toys streaming across the apartment. Hisoka dodges behind the planter full of herbs and Gon screams and kicks it aside, dirt and plants flying everywhere. 

Hisoka digs in a heel for a kick with Bungee Gum; rather than dodging away Gon leaps forward. So long as Hisoka is pressed he can’t accurately use his nen ability. Gon punches and kicks and screams, breaks the floor and the walls as Hisoka dodges his blows. 

They fly around the apartment like a whirlwind, Gon throwing pots and plates and knives, ripping away the marble top of the island and slicing it through the air like a discus; it misses Hisoka by a hair and cuts into the far wall where it hangs, suspended.

Gon’s chest is burning, his sight black at the edges, aware only of the rage that’s whipping him forward even as it tears him apart. 

Finally he catches the magician by the ankle and snaps him down like a dog killing a rat, slamming Hisoka through the hardwood floor and into the concrete beneath it. He lands heavily on the magician’s waist, crushing him into the cement, and rains down blows that slowly crush him down, wider and wider cracks appearing beneath him. 

Hisoka is no longer dodging, his body curled and his face bloody. 

Gon pounds him until his rage boils itself dry, until the adrenaline slips out of his bloodstream leaving him cold and shaking, his shoulders heaving with his violent breaths. He feels raw, like he’s been peeled out of his skin, like he’s been stripped of his sense, his sanity.

He looks down at the ruin of his mate. Hisoka’s clothes have ripped away, his pale skin marred by ugly red bruising. His mouth and nose are bloody, his saliva pink and frothing in his teeth. 

His eyes are glittering with pleasure. “ _Gon_ ,” he moans, reaching up with his good hand to press it against Gon’s face, his fingers digging into Gon’s hair. “My Gon. You’re exquisite. Marvellous. _Sensational_.” He coughs, blood speckling his pale skin. 

Gon can barely suck in enough air to keep going, his body aching for it, his fists bloody and torn. He feels alone, feels empty. Feels desperate need gnawing at his bones, feeding off his very marrow. “ _Sotto_ ,” he pants, falling forward and catching himself with his hands splayed on either side of Hisoka’s head, their foreheads only inches apart. “ _Sotto_.”

Hisoka sits up, pushing him off; Gon tumbles to the side, exhausted and spent, utterly done. He lies on the broken wood floor as Hisoka rises, dusting himself off. He reapplies Texture Surprise to his face and disguises the damage Gon did, then crosses to the bedroom and disappears. 

Gon stares at his bloody fists, at the cuts on his knuckles and the dark already-drying blood worked in under his nails. They’ve never seemed so foreign, so other. These are the fists that brought down Hisoka, that pummeled his mate into the floor. 

Hisoka comes out dressed in new clothes, looking as though they had never fought, as though nothing had happened. At the door he pauses, turning back to Gon. His expression is cold. Despite Texture Surprise, blood is leaking through his lips, scarlet against his pale skin. 

“I will bring the pup home,” he says. 

Then he’s gone, and Gon is alone in the wreck of their apartment. 

He sits up slowly, looking around in a daze. The walls are smashed, the flooring destroyed. The kitchen island has been half torn away. There are books and magazines and dirt littered all over, knives and plates embedded in the walls. His new herbs lie strewn like shrapnel, uprooted and dying. In the middle of the wreckage lies Sotto’s torn, bloody hat. 

Ruined. It’s all ruined. Every last piece of his life, torn asunder. 

Gon staggers slowly to his feet, his legs weak beneath him. He sways through the destruction, broken hardwood crunching under his boots. He comes finally to Sotto’s room, the door closed, undamaged. He opens it and steps into this one island of calm. 

The bedroom is thick with his pup’s scent: his and Hisoka’s markings and the smell of soap and shampoo. Whimpering he drags himself across the thick green carpet and drops to his knees beside the bed. Lays his face down on the pillow, breathing deeply. 

Slowly, his tears dampen the cotton.

  
***

He doesn’t allow himself long to recover, though; he needs to find his son. He gets up and returns to the living room, to where their coffee table is lying overturned, one leg broken off. It has shallow drawers in it, and in one of them is Gon’s laptop. He turns the table over carefully and retrieves it; the light is still on. Then he sorts through the ripped and dirty papers now strewn about the apartment until he finds the one Hisoka was writing on. He goes into his bedroom and sits on the bed while the computer wakes up. As soon as it’s on he opens his email, addressing a new one to Leorio and Kurapika.

Subject: _URGENT: HELP!_

_Leorio, Kurapika, I need your help. Someone’s taken Sotto; they kidnapped him on his way home from school this afternoon. They just sent us his hat, covered in blood. It’s because of Hisoka, because of someone he hurt or killed._

_Hisoka’s gone out to look for him, but he’s hurt a lot of people – he doesn’t know who he’s looking for._

_I need your connections to help track anyone related to these people, they’re the last ones Hisoka fought:_

_Dan Shields  
Amai Ishi  
Segai Hoppi  
James Jazz_

_Call me if you find anything!_

_Gon_

Email sent, he shuts his computer and grabs his phone from his pocket. There’s a new crack in the case but otherwise it seems fine. He scrolls through the numbers until he finds the one he wants, dialling it. 

The phone rings once, twice, three times, before a low voice answers. “Hello?”

“Killua! It’s me! I need your help!”

“Gon?” Killua sounds surprised. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows, forces his hand to relax so he doesn’t crush the phone. “Someone’s taken Sotto. As revenge against Hisoka. I’ve gotta find him – right away!”

“Shit.” There’s a pause, Killua taking a ragged breath. “Look Gon, I’m four hours away by airship. I’ll get on the first one I can, but –”

“I’ve already asked Leorio and Kurapika for help. They can use their Hunter Association and mafia connections too.”

“Good. Look – if it’s someone targeting Hisoka, they’ve probably been to the Arena. Get the footage from the fights and look for anyone who seems really upset. If we can get a picture we can track them down.”

Gon nods. For the first time since realizing Sotto was missing, he feels like he has direction. “Okay. I’ll get the videos.”

“Good. I’m heading out to the airstrip right now – I’ll meet you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks Killua.”

He hangs up, then phones down to the reception counter on the 200th floor. He needs that footage.

  
***

Gon’s not good with computers. He’s sure there’s a way to capture images from still frames but he doesn’t know it, so instead he just notes down the times when important faces appear onscreen. Killua will be able to work with that. It’s hard to get any decent looks because the camera follows the fighters, and the audience is mostly a background blur. But occasionally Hisoka and the challenger pause for breath, and there’s time to search the seats for those who seem particularly invested in the fight.

Gon starts with the most recent fight – Dan Shields, the nen-blade-wielding omega – because here at least he knows what he’s looking for. He’s able to get two good stills of the woman on the opposite side of the ring, her eyes wide and anguished. 

After that fight he watches the others in turn, pausing and rewinding them repeatedly as he scans the crowd carefully. In two of the three he spots spectators who might be tied to the challenger, both conspicuously passionate when Hisoka deals the death blow. 

Leorio calls in the middle of the third fight, his voice squawking and frantic. “Gon! Are you okay? Any news?”

“No. I’m trying to figure out who might be responsible. Hisoka’s out looking, and Killua’s flying in.”

“I’ll get word out to the Association right away. There’s lots of Hunters on the continent; they should be able to nose out anything strange. Whoever took him might not stay in the city, you know. They’ve gotta know you’re dangerous.”

Gon’s eyes slide closed. “Yeah. I think they do. I just don’t think they care. They want to hurt us – to hurt Hisoka – as much as they can before they’re caught. So we’ve got to catch them real quick.” He doesn’t want to think about what they might do to Sotto. What they _will_ do to Sotto, if he can’t find them. 

What they might already have done. 

Leorio’s voice cuts into his despair. “Right. I’ll get started. I’ll call you with anything I hear, okay?”

Gon looks up, eyes hard. “Thanks Leorio.”

  
***

It takes him nearly two hours to finish with the footage; by the time he’s done the sun is setting and his stomach is starting to growl. He ignores it completely.

When he’s done he logs into the Hunter’s Association website and starts searching through the forum logs. Leorio and some others have already posted new topics: _Kidnapped Hunter’s Child – find these people!_ , which already has dozens of views and several posts. There are pictures of Sotto that Gon recognizes from Leorio’s trip to see them last year, Sotto smiling for the camera with a hamburger in his hands, mustard smeared on his mouth. 

The picture is like a kick to the stomach. Gon actually doubles over, his pain physical. Sotto’s eyes are so bright, his smile so wide. Gon stares, heartrate quickening, hands trembling. 

It passes quickly, his resolve steadying his hands. He uploads several newer pictures that show Sotto clearly, and then goes out on the wider net, searching awkwardly with his poor skills for any news, any clue, any information.

He’s still at it when the doorbell rings. 

He shoots up, tossing his computer aside on the bed, and runs out to answer it, bright, brittle hope flaring up inside him. Throws open the door, eyes wide.

It’s Killua. His best friend rushes forward, hugging Gon tightly. “Gon! It’ll be okay. We’ll find him.”

Slowly, Gon lowers his head onto Killua’s broad shoulder. He smells of summer rain and ozone, thick, refreshing scents. Scents he hasn’t allowed himself to take comfort in for a long, long time. 

After a moment he straightens and steps back. “Come in,” he says, switching on the lights in the apartment. 

Killua looks over his shoulder, eyes widening. “Holy shit – did they take him from here?”

Gon looks behind himself and sees the ruined apartment. His jaw tenses. “No. On his way home from school.”

“But this –” Killua takes a step inside and sees the island’s marble top wedged deep into the wall beside him. He runs his fingers along the smooth edge of it; it doesn’t move. “What the hell happened here?”

“Hisoka and I fought.”

Killua spins to stare at him, eyes dropping to Gon’s still-bloody hands. He reaches out, catches hold of Gon’s shoulders. His touch is soft, gentle – very unlike Hisoka’s hard fingers and pricking nails. It feels insubstantial, unreal. “He attacked you? Are you okay – did he –”

“I’m fine. I started it. I was so _angry_. Not at him – not really. Just… at everything, everyone. I don’t even remember what he said to set me off; I was just _on_ him. I beat the shit out of him, Killua,” he says quietly, looking down at his hands. “He’s gone now.”

It suddenly hits him how bereft he feels without his pup or his mate. How _alone_ he is. 

Killua’s expression is stormy, but all he says is: “Knowing the clown, he’ll be back. I’m sure you went easier on him than you think, Gon.”

Gon shakes his head; his mind is full of the memories of blows and blood and the sounds of pain. He walks through the destruction until his eyes fall on a small torn piece of cloth. 

He snaps down and picks up the hat, wrapping his fingers around it. “They sent us this,” he says, raising his hands to show Killua the ruined fabric. 

“They sent it to you?” Killua’s face is strange. 

Gon nods. 

“Like, in the mail?”

“Dunno. It was delivered by one of the bell boys, so it must have come to the Arena’s front desk. It was in a box,” he adds, memory sparking.

“Where’s the box now?” Killua’s looking around, tone intense. Gon doesn’t understand the direction of his thoughts, but he picks up on the urgency. He begins searching for it, shoving aside debris. 

Killua finds it in the kitchen, flattened beneath a tossed chair. He digs it out and dusts it off, turning it over in his hands to look at the address tag. “This was sent using a courier, not through the mail,” he says. 

Gon frowns. “So?”

“So maybe we can track down who sent it!” He pulls out his phone and types hurriedly. “There’s a depot nearby. They’ll be closed now, but…”

“But?”

Killua smiles grimly. “With Hunter connections, we can find anyone. Especially anyone with a regular job. Where’s your computer?”


	5. Fault Lines

Gon sets the sofa upright; there’s a long rip in its back exposing the frame and the stuffing, but it’s otherwise okay. He brings out his laptop and logs on for Killua.

“I’ve got the fight footage too,” he says. “I couldn’t take pictures, but I have the times recorded.”

Killua nods. “Better do that first – I’ll send it to Leorio to post so we don’t waste any time.” 

Gon leans over and pulls up the notepad document with the recorded times. He’s only inches from Killua, and while he’s totally focused on his computer he senses the alpha looking at him, eyes wide. 

He’s a mess, he knows. Hands bloody, clothes torn, hair dishevelled. There’s a long, jagged tear in the front of his shirt that, as he leans over, reveals his chest and stomach. He feels rather than sees Killua’s eyes flash to it, the alpha in him drawn to Gon. Especially now when he’s hurting, is vulnerable. 

Their friendship has been strong, so strong, for years. They had trusted each other in everything absolutely, had never needed words to understand one another. Their bond had only veered beyond the realm of friendship into the harsher, more intense world of sexual attraction once. And that one time had been enough to break them. 

They’re still close, but there’s no longer that same ease between them. At the bottom of their interactions there’s a lingering tension like a fault line, dormant but ready at any time to tear them apart. 

“There are the times,” says Gon, pulling back. “The videos are saved on the desktop. Download anything you need to.”

Killua looks up. His blue eyes are intense but with a banked fire. “Got it,” he says. 

Gon pads away to change his clothes.

  
***

He takes a brief shower first, cleaning off sweat and blood and the stinks of challenge and rage. There’s a first aid kit under the sink and he bandages his knuckles until the drops of blood that soak through are faint. Then he pulls on his clothes, loose trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. His mark he leaves uncovered, silver on his tanned skin.

“I sent the pics to Leorio to post,” says Killua when he emerges into the wreck of the living room. “I’m digging into the courier business now.”

Gon nods silently and fetches a broom from the closet. He sweeps up dirt and glass and wood, piles it in the lee of the dismantled island where they won’t step on it. He rights the kitchen table – three of the four legs are still sturdy, although there’s a long gouge on the surface – and gathers the chairs around it from where they’ve been hurled. Picks pans and plates out of the walls and piles them on the kitchen counters. 

All the while, he feels like there’s a current running through him. He’s deeply uncomfortable, physically distressed at having nothing to do to help the search. His hands shake as he stacks pots, his breathing rough. His sight and hearing have cleared since the fight with Hisoka but they’re still not quite right, are still aimed like spotlights where he turns his attention and otherwise blurred at the edges, his body trying to ratchet up his ability to focus on tiny details. 

He’s trying not to pressure Killua, but he keeps coming back to the couch, looking over his shoulder at the screen showing what looks to him like gibberish. His hands are tense, his entire body filled with nervous energy like a sprinter waiting for the gun. 

Finally, when he’s circled back for the third time, Killua looks up. His shoulders are tight, his face pinched. “Gon, you reek of distress. You’ve got to tone it down; I can’t concentrate.” His hands are trembling. Most alphas would take advantage of a distraught omega. But one as close as Killua... he might feel almost like a mate, might feel the urge to comfort. 

An urge which would threaten Gon’s established bond.

Gon swallows, takes a breath. “Sorry. Sorry.” He backs off, goes to the table and takes a seat. He rests his forehead on his hands, back bowed, and tries to calm down. 

He wonders where Hisoka is. If he’s okay. Even using nen to protect himself from Gon’s assault, he would have taken a lot of damage. Gon remembers the blood trickling from his mouth, his Bungee Gum lips not quite right. Hisoka has no lips of his own to cut; the blood must have been from an internal injury. And now he’s out there, alone, hungry for more violence. 

Hisoka will fight until he dies, will never surrender to someone he sees as having wronged him. And now he’s already hurt, already at a disadvantage. 

Gon squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on his breathing rather than the fears that keep creeping closer to his skin, that threaten to choke him like a hangman’s noose. 

“Done!” announces Killua suddenly, standing. Gon shoots up, knocking his chair over. “I’ve got the address for the head of the business here in town. Do you have a car?”

“No, but there are some we can rent from the Arena.”

“Good. Let’s go!”

  
***

Outside the night is dark, pierced only by streetlamps and the homey glow pouring from windows. The moon is new and the local light pollution hides the stars. It’s one of many things Gon doesn’t like about living in a big city.

Killua drives – he’s more used to it, and he has the address. Gon sits anxiously in the passenger seat watching dark buildings pass by. Killua drives less aggressively than Hisoka but still fast, hitting the gas at amber lights to shoot through before they turn red, and gunning it after stops so that they race forward as fast as possible. 

The Arena is in the downtown core, surrounded mostly by businesses and shops. There are some apartment buildings, but most people live in the outlying suburbs. Killua uses the GPS on his phone to guide him out of town and into the long rows of houses. The night is deep and inky, streetlights glowing like halos. Here the houses have their own yards, cars parked in driveways or on the street. 

It’s past ten, traffic on the road slow and many houses already dark. They pull up to one on a corner lot, blue wooden slats with white window frames. Clean, pleasant. Gon hops out as soon as the car comes to a stop, Killua hurrying after him. 

“Gon! What are you going to say?”

“That I want my son back,” snarls Gon, hands fisted. 

“He doesn’t know anything about that. You’d better let me do the talking; you’re not thinking straight.”

“Killua,” growls Gon, but the alpha’s already stepping forward and ringing the bell. He rings it again and again, the sound echoing in the silent night. 

They wait a minute before hearing steps. The door’s opened by an older man in a bathrobe, his greying beard bristling. “What the hell do you want?” he demands. 

Gon lets a low snarl escape him, but Killua’s already speaking. “We need to know about a box that was dropped off at one of your depots this afternoon. The one on Clearview Road.”

“Take a hike – I don’t –”

Killua produces his Hunter license, the laminated card flashing in the soft light filtering out from the house. At the same time his nails shoot out, grazing the man’s throat. “We need to know,” he repeats, voice low. It holds all kinds of threats: pain, torture, death. 

“I manage all the warehouses – I don’t work the front!”

Killua’s nails press against his drooping skin. “So who does?” 

“Yamto!”

“And where can we find Yamto?”

“I don’t know! I’d have to check the HR files, and –”

“So check them,” orders Killua. “We’ll come with you.” And he turns and marches the manager into his own house. Gon follows, slamming the door behind him.

A woman comes out, her hair in rollers, only to be shouted away by her husband; she scurries off and disappears. The manager takes them into a small office and starts going through a vertical filing cabinet, digging in the files in it. Finally he finds what he’s looking for and drags it out. “There! There – his address.”

Killua snaps a picture of it on his phone. “If you warn him we’re coming, we’ll be back. And we won’t be so friendly,” he says. He glances at Gon, who nods, and the two of them leave together.

  
***

Gon sits silently in the passenger seat as they head through the suburbs to their next destination. He can see his face in the window; it’s drawn, eyes shadowed. He looks ill, like he’s suffering from some wasting sickness.

Heart-sick.

He frowns and looks through the image of his face at the houses passing by. 

Killua speaks up, his voice soft. “We’ll find him, Gon. We will. By now most of the Hunters on the continent know he’s missing. They’ll all help. You’ve got the Zodiacs on your side, and the Zoldycks.”

Gon closes his eyes. “He could already be dead,” he says, voicing the darkest fear in his heart. 

“No. Whoever took him wants to hurt you – hurt Hisoka. There’s no point in killing him yet. As long as he’s still alive, he’ll recover. He’s strong.” Killua’s voice is clear, confident. 

“They’ll hurt him. They’ve already hurt him.”

“Yeah, they will. And they’ll try to hurt you with that. So you’ve got to be strong too. You’ve got to stay in control. When we find them – when we’ve saved Sotto – that’s when you can let go. I’ll help you do whatever you want to them, just as slow and savage as you want.”

“I don’t want help,” says Gon, jaw tense. “I’m gonna make them pay for every drop of blood they shed. Every single one.”

  
***

Yamto lives in a smaller, more ramshackle house in a subdivision with small lots and narrow garages. By now it’s close to eleven, more lights out in houses. There’s still one on in Yamto’s window, though.

They cross to the door and Killua knocks – there’s no bell here. 

There’s no answer.

He knocks again, and again. Then he steps back and kicks the door down. 

They enter like challengers into the Arena, strong and sturdy and utterly confident in their strength and skills. They split up and search the house. 

Gon finds Yamto, a thin, rat-faced man, cowering behind his bed. He grabs his arm and drags him up. 

“W-w-what do you want?”

“Information. A box was delivered at your facility today. We want to know who dropped it off.”

Wide brown eyes stare up at him. “You’re just an omega,” he begins.

Gon reaches out without looking and smashes his hand into the wall. It craters, drywall and studs shattering. Yamto squeals, cowering away from him. 

“Don’t test me. How do I find out who dropped it off?”

Killua joins him, ghosting into the room like mist, his silver hair glowing in the faint light. He stands back and watches. 

“Thousands of boxes are dropped off every day!”

Gon brings out the box, shows it. “This one,” he says. The man takes it in trembling hands and examines the label. 

“It was dropped off during rush hour. No way to know who took it in. No one would remember a box like this – it’s totally ordinary.”

“Do you have cameras?” asks Killua.

“N-not inside.”

“Outside?” 

“On the street.”

“We want the footage from just before and after that box was handed in.”

Yamto stares up at him, then at Gon. “It’s at the office,” he moans.

Killua crosses his arms. “Then we’ll go and get it.”

  
***

They drive Yamto back into town to his depot, the rat-faced man shivering in the back seat the whole time. Gon and Killua don’t talk, the drive conducted in thin, brittle silence.

At the depot Yamto scrambles out of the car and unlocks the door. He takes them into the back office and loads up the security footage program. Rewinds the video to the time of the drop-off.

The camera is on the street, mounted high above the door and looking down almost directly onto it. The angle is so sharp that it doesn’t show much at all of people approaching, just the tops of their heads as they enter and leave. The footage is grainy and black-and-white.

Gon growls; Yamto shivers. 

They watch it through twice, ten minutes before drop off to ten minutes after. Several people are wearing hats and sunglasses, their heads and faces obscured. 

Gon sees no one he recognizes. 

“This is a waste of time.” His fists are so tense his bandaged knuckles are aching. He kicks out, denting the front of a filing cabinet. Yamto jumps. 

“Okay,” says Killua. “We have pictures we want you to post for your employees – the person we’re looking for might be back. We’ll send them to you. What’s your email address?”

Yamto pulls a business card off the desk and hands it over. Killua pockets it. “Good. Post them right away, and if anyone recognizes any of the people in the pictures, call this number.” He takes another card off the desk and scrawls his number on the back, tossing it at Yamto. 

Gon turns to leave, Killua following. 

“What about me?” asks Yamto, still behind the desk.

“Take a cab home.”

“I don’t have my wallet!”

Killua digs out his and pulls out some bills, throws them on the desk. 

Gon’s already slamming out the door.

  
***

They drive back to the Arena slowly. Gon’s stomach is growling; he digs his fist into his gut.

“Did you eat?” asks Killua.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“I take it that’s a no.”

“Did you?”

Killua changes lanes, then slows for a red light. He glances over at Gon as they idle. “Yeah, on the flight out here. Some of the places in the Arena will still be open, we can get you something.”

Gon looks away. “Not hungry.”

“You are. You’re just too worried to realize it.” He makes it sound so practical. Gon wants no part in practical, wants to fight, to kill for his pup. 

“I don’t need food. I need to find Sotto.”

“We’ll check the forums when we get back. If there’s no news, you should eat.”

Gon doesn’t answer. In the mirrored window his eyes are hard and desperate.

  
***

The first thing they do when they get back to the Arena is check the Hunter forums on Gon’s computer.

Leorio’s uploaded the screencaps from the Arena footage, and there are some comments of places people have started to look but no identifications yet. And no other leads. 

“Now, you eat,” says Killua. Gon looks at him pleadingly. “Don’t give me that look. You need to be ready for whatever happens. That means you need to eat. I’ll go pick something up; you can stay and watch the forum.”

Gon nods reluctantly and Killua takes off. 

Although all the posts in the threads Leorio created are focused on finding Sotto, on turning up information on the possible suspects, that’s not true of all the posts on the forum. Gon digs through the site and finds posts about Hisoka – about how his son’s kidnapping is his fault, is revenge, is penance. About how he deserves it. 

About how Sotto’s probably a monster anyway. 

There’s even a picture of Hisoka and Sotto together that Gon didn’t upload. _Yellow-eyed freaks_ , reads the caption. 

Gon’s fingers dig into his knees, leaving painful white marks behind. His breathing is harsh, ragged, his teeth partially bared. To celebrate his pup’s pain, his mate’s pain… a low sound of frustration escapes his throat, a rough-edged keening. 

He wishes Hisoka were here. Wants the comfort of his unforgiving nature, of his strong confident scent. Wants to know he’s alright. 

Out in the hallway he hears footsteps and closes the forum post he was reading, sets the computer down on the coffee table and stands. His joints crack, stiff from the tension in his body, and he forces himself to stretch. 

Killua returns with a tray holding a hamburger and fries and a soda. “Smells good – I almost got one for myself.”

Gon manages a smile. “You can have some.”

“Nah. It’s for you.” He puts it on the table and Gon pulls back a chair, takes a seat. His mind abhors the idea of eating, of being here stuffing his face while somewhere Sotto is being hurt. But his stomach craves the food, his mouth watering. He picks up the hamburger and takes a bite. The tastes are rich: meat, sharp mustard, crunchy onion. 

Slowly he chews, staring down at his meal. A meal without his mate, without his pup.

The tears catch him by surprise, his throat tightening and his sight blurring. He feels Killua come to stand behind him, his pale arm over Gon’s shoulders. 

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” he says, quietly. “It’ll be okay.”

But he’s not the one Gon wants.


	6. Ouroborus

They keep watch on the forum late into the night. But as the hours pass, it becomes clear that they’re the only ones still up. The forum posts have died off, the rest of the world asleep.

“You should rest,” says Killua. “I don’t think there’ll be anything new ‘til morning.”

Gon shakes his head. He feels strange, his thoughts racing, leaping from point-to-point like static electricity. _Sotto – Hisoka – Arena – revenge._ They’re brief, insubstantial concepts, his mind rushing on before he has time to consider any of them thoroughly. He feels light, tossed around like a dandelion seed on the breeze. He hardly registers the weight of his body at all – the storm of his thoughts so encompassing that it almost seems unnecessary. He is nothing but a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings, ungrounded.

“Gon, you need sleep. You look awful.” Killua’s blue eyes are compassionate, worried. He reaches out to take Gon’s shoulder, his scent reassuring. Gon pulls back instinctively. 

There was a time when he would have given anything to have Killua’s attention, his reassurances. But that time is long past, his bond with Hisoka solid, immutable. 

Killua drops his hand, eyes falling. “Sorry,” he mutters. 

Gon pulls himself together. He sits up and slaps his cheeks, the sudden sharp pain breaking into his swirling thoughts. “No – I’m sorry. I’m being useless. You’re right; we should rest. The sofa’s not in great shape, but you can stay here. Or I can book you a visitor’s room in the Arena.”

“I’ll stay here. If it’s okay.”

“Sure, it’s fine. I feel bad though – you came all this way to help and all I have for you is a beat-up sofa. And all I’ve been doing is worrying while you’ve done all the leg-work.” He forces a pained smile. “I’m sorry, Killua.”

“Idiot. Friends don’t need to apologize to each other. And I came to do whatever I could. You know I’d do anything for you and Sotto.”

Gon doesn’t miss the fact that he doesn’t mention Hisoka. In the years since Hisoka mated him there’s been a truce between the magician and the former assassin. But Gon knows nothing will make Killua like Hisoka. A part of Killua, he thinks, still wishes things could have worked out differently between them – even though he had been the one to walk away. And that means a part of him will always see Hisoka as a thief, as the alpha who stole the omega he wanted. For Gon and Sotto, Killua’s packed away that part of himself, but Gon can see it shining through now. 

He sighs and stands. “I’ll go to bed. You know where everything is – or at least where it was,” he says doubtfully, looking at the wrecked apartment. It looks a little better since his clean, but not much. 

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got an alert from the forums set on my phone; if anything happens, I’ll wake you up.”

Gon nods, his smile tight, pained. He turns and heads for his room, leaving Killua alone behind him.

  
***

Gon doesn’t bother to change his clothes; he wants to be ready to spring into action if needed. He simply takes his shoes off and rolls into their large bed, the firm mattress welcoming his tired body.

Tired. He hadn’t thought he was, but he feels some aches and pains now, feels gladness in his muscles at lying limp. He had thrown the entirety of himself into fighting Hisoka, hadn’t pulled a single blow. As a boy, that wouldn’t have phased him but he’s getting on for thirty now and doesn’t fight seriously anymore. He’s out of shape. 

He pulls the covers over himself and lies on his side staring out the window. Hisoka doesn’t like curtains – prefers to look out the window at the slumbering city below. Gon watches the tiny lights sparkling in the inky blackness now. The view that he usually finds beautiful now seems lonely, cold. The lights so far away, so tiny, so hopeless. 

Gon closes his eyes, tries to shut out the emptiness that crashes over him sudden as a tsunami. 

Memories of happiness, of contentment, of fulfilment flood him: Sotto as an infant, snuggled in against Gon’s chest and breathing softly; Sotto chasing Hisoka with a wooden sword; Sotto beaming up at him while opening a birthday present. Hisoka’s arms around him, his strong scent protective; Hisoka’s proud smile as Sotto evades a punch; Hisoka pressing him against a wall, tongue lapping against Gon’s mark sending waves of bliss through him.

Hisoka carrying a sleeping Sotto home in his arms, the pup with a faint smile on his face, Hisoka’s scent sweet as he glances at Gon. 

Gone. 

They’re both gone. 

The memories are bitter as ash and jagged as broken glass, slicing into him. They’re replaced by today’s tragedies: an empty classroom, a bloody hat, a ruined apartment. Fear and horror whip through him like furies, cutting into him with twin rusty swords.

For the first time, Gon realizes just how fragile his happiness is. How it totters on the edge of a knife, how his own actions make it reel. How it’s so, so close to shattering. 

He makes a low sound and turns over, rolls in the bed from his side onto Hisoka’s. Buries his face in the magician’s pillow and takes in his rich scent: icing sugar and iron filings. 

His fingers tighten against the silk sheets, his body aching for his mate, his pup. His mind cries out wordlessly, desperate, pleading. 

_Sotto!_

  
***

Gon knows he’s slept because he wakes with a start at the sound of someone moving in the apartment. For one bright, brief moment he thinks it’s Hisoka up and making breakfast, or Sotto trying to filch a cookie from the jar.

Then the world comes crashing back down on him and he curls inwards, trying to deny the reality of his memories. _No!_

There’s a knock at the door. “Gon?”

He sits up, throwing the blanket aside and standing. Crosses over and opens it to see Killua there. Of course it’s Killua. 

“There’s been some new information,” says Killua. “I’ve got the address of one our suspects – the mate of the most recent person Hisoka fought.”

Gon snaps up straight, suddenly entirely awake. “What?”

“C’mon – we’ll go see her.”

Gon grabs his boots and crams them on, then runs after Killua without even bothering to do up the laces.

  
***

“Her name’s Silk,” Killua tells Gon once they’ve checked out a car and are on the road. He brought a couple of granola bars from the kitchen with him but Gon’s too keyed up to eat, his stomach churning with anxious hope. “Silk Shields. She’s his alpha – or was. He had rights to a room in the Arena, of course, but they had an apartment on the other side of town. She’s a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” Not the kind of person Gon pictures as a kidnapper. But an alpha robbed of her omega, her bond broken violently… that fits. 

“Uh huh. Corporate law; high powered. I’ve got the address of her firm, too. But we’ll try her apartment first.”

Gon thinks back to the fight as they drive. To the dark-haired woman’s obvious anxiety, her distress growing to horror as the fight progressed. 

The challenger’s mate. To see her omega cut down in front of her, to watch the blood drain from his slit throat… Gon swallows thickly. 

Killua glances at him. “Gon?”

“Hisoka killed her mate,” he says, slowly. 

“Yeah. She’s probably never gotten her hands dirty – probably wouldn’t know where to start. She wouldn’t be a match for Hisoka. But taking a kid off the street’s easy, if you’re smart about it.”

Gon presses his lips together tightly, eyes on the passing cityscape. If it’s her, she took Sotto out of revenge for her mate. And when he finds her, then what? He knows in his bones that if she’s harmed his pup, he won’t be able to contain his rage. 

Revenge is like a snake eating its own tail: the cycle never ends.

  
***

They draw up to the apartment building some fifteen minutes later; it’s a four-story building in a shady, green area of town. The building looks new and expensive, the design modern and a little edgy with protruding balconies and immense glass doors.

There’s a moving truck parked in front of the building, its back open showing stacks of boxes and shadowy furniture lurking at the back. Killua parks behind it and they get out. 

The front door is propped open for the movers so entry’s no problem. “Apartment 401; top floor,” says Killua. The elevator’s engaged so they take the stairs, Gon racing up two at a time and Killua following behind. 

Sotto could be here. Could be waiting for him – hurt and scared and scarred but _alive, wanting him_. Gon bursts ahead, flying up the stairs. 

They burst out into the hallway of the fourth floor and see that there’s a door propped open at the far end, boxes stacked around. 

401\. 

Gon stares. 

“Shit,” says Killua.

The elevator opens and two men carrying a sofa come out, manoeuver down the hall and into the open apartment. Into Silk Shields’ apartment. 

“Killua?” he turns to the other Hunter, excitement cracking and releasing a thick coating of despair. 

She’s not here. They’re not here. 

“We’ve got to find the building manager. Wait here.” 

Gon stands by the stairwell entrance while Killua goes and knocks on the door, enters and talks to a young man in jeans and a t-shirt. The conversation is brief, but he comes back with his phone pulled out. Gon opens his mouth and Killua shakes his head. A moment later he’s talking to the phone.

“Hi, I need to speak to the manager of 1294 Carbolo Road. Yes. Yes.” He taps his foot, waiting. Then: “Hi, I’m trying to find a friend of mine – Silk Shields. I just stopped by her place but there’s new people moving in. Oh? Last week? Do you know where she went? Okay. Do you have a forwarding address? Great. Thanks.” He hangs up and immediately opens a chat, typing into it. “She moved to York Shin City last week, right out of the blue – must have been right after the fight. I’ll send Leorio her address there to confirm.” He finishes typing and looks up. “If it’s true, it’s probably not her. She’d have been gone days before Sotto went missing.”

Gon stares at him. He feels robbed, feels denied, his hands twitching to punch something. “So what?” he asks, trying to stay calm.

“So we’ve got to keep following up on the others. There were bound to be false leads, Gon. We just need to make sure we track down every one until we find the right one.”

“That could take _days_ ,” spits Gon, words sharp, brittle. 

“We’ve gotta do our best,” replies Killua. It doesn’t sound like much of a reassurance.

  
***

They go back to the Arena. There’s nowhere else to go, much as Gon’s instincts are telling him to run, to hunt, to search out his pup on his own two feet. He feels tied down, feels caged by bars that press against him, crushing him.

Despite the temperate weather he’s sweating, his chest tight and his skin hot. He feels one step away from losing control, from falling into the well of rage that led to him attacking Hisoka. Killua keeps looking at him, eyes worried. 

Back in his apartment they log onto the computer; there’s been plenty of action on the Hunter forums but nothing substantial. Different Hunters are pursuing different leads; the information about Silk Shields has already been updated, presumably by Leorio. 

“Do you think there could be information in the Arena? Challengers like to gossip, especially about big names,” says Killua. 

Gon glances at him. “I’ve never really gotten involved in the Arena. Being Hisoka’s mate makes it hard for people to want to be friendly. I don’t hear the gossip.”

“I wasn’t thinking of you,” replies Killua. 

Gon considers for a moment. Then, at the same time, they both say: “Zushi!”

  
***

They go down to his floor together. It’s quiet, no sounds coming from the dojo further down the hall. They reach the apartment and knock, waiting.

Zushi opens the door after a minute. “Gon! _Killua!_ ” He smiles widely. “I didn’t know you were coming to town, Killua! What’s the occasion?”

“Revenge,” says Killua, bluntly. Zushi looks from him to Gon, smile faltering. 

“What’s happened?”

“Someone took Sotto, Zushi. Someone looking to hurt Hisoka. We need to know any ideas you have – anything you’ve heard about people out to get Hisoka.”

Zushi’s eyes are wide, shocked. But after a moment he nods. “You’d better come in.”

  
***

They sit on Zushi’s long, modern couch, the lines clean and simple, while he stands leaning against the wall. His hands are fisted, his limbs long and straight. “Honestly, everyone talks about Hisoka but no one ever really seems about to _do_ anything about him,” he says, slowly. “He’s had enemies since before he was a Floor Master, I think maybe even since before he came to the Arena. He’s got a long past, but I don’t know anything about that.”

Gon frowns. He doesn’t either – Hisoka has always been entirely reticent when it comes to speaking about his past. 

“Almost everyone respects him, and most people are afraid of him, but no one really likes him. That makes it easy to gossip about him. There are plenty of challengers who dream of taking him down – but they would do it in the ring, not by kidnapping his son. I suppose if someone wanted a handicap during a fight…” 

Gon shakes his head. “No. I think whoever this is wants to hurt him, not beat him. This is something very personal.”

“Well, there’s any number of people whose friends have been killed by him.”

“Other fighters?” asks Killua. 

Zushi nods.

“Probably not them. They’d challenge him head-on. We’re looking for someone weak. A family member of a challenger, maybe.”

Zushi purses his lips, thinking. “I don’t know much about them. Most of the fighters in the Arena don’t have close ties – it’s too dangerous, and, well, the kind of people it attracts are usually more than a little broken.”

_Like Hisoka_ , goes unsaid. 

“Could you be wrong about the revenge angle?” asks Zushi. “I could see one, or even a group, of challengers coming together to take down Hisoka to open up his spot. I know you think most fighters would go for a head-on challenge, but when it comes to Hisoka… he’s not known as the Grim Reaper for nothing. No one but Chrollo ever beat him. Gon’s the only person he’s ever fought in the Arena without killing.”

Gon stares down at his hands, his fingers digging tightly into the fabric of his trousers. He’s never thought about it like that, but it’s true. He’s the only one Hisoka spared. Even then, even as a boy the magician had been drawn to him. 

“I guess we can’t rule anything out,” says Killua. “Could you look into it? You’ll have to be smart about it – people know you’re friends with Gon.”

“I can. I have an idea of the fighters who might agree to something like this.”

“If you need help,” begins Gon, voice rough, his gaze hard. 

“I can handle it. I’ll get started right away, and let you know as soon as I find anything out.”

Gon nods and stands. “Thanks Zushi.”

  
***

They go back upstairs, Killua talking about ordering food – pointing out the fact that Gon didn’t eat breakfast.

He doesn’t feel hungry. His stomach is knotting itself up uncomfortably, dry and despairing. He drags himself back to the torn sofa and pulls his computer over. He checks his email on a whim; the action is on the Hunter site, but it’s possible Hisoka might have emailed him.

There’s nothing from his mate, but there is an email from Kurapika dated an hour ago. It’s been more than a year since he last heard from the Black List Hunter, and he feels his eyes widen. There’s no subject line. He clicks it open, hand trembling. 

_Gon,_

_I’ve received word from some of my contacts in the underground in town. Apparently last night there was major carnage in several of the local hired muscle shops. No one has a description of the assailant; everyone present was killed._

_Theories are circulating and so far no one’s linked this back to you. But if you did have anything to do with it, make sure to keep your trail clean. The mafia doesn’t like to be made to seem weak._

_If I hear anything further, I’ll contact you._

_K._

Gon re-reads the email once, then looks up to Killua. His stomach unclenches, and he smiles slightly. 

“I know what Hisoka’s been up to,” he says.


	7. Interlude: Chaos and Carnage

It’s been a long time since he’s felt pain this delicious, this scintillating. The taste of blood in his mouth, the ache of bone-deep bruises, the sharp cut of broken ribs. Hisoka savours them as he would old scotch, walking slowly down the hall towards the elevator. 

He’s never seen Gon like this before. Never seen madness dulling his eyes, his innate kindness stolen from him by fury. Hisoka has always loved Gon’s beautiful, clear eyes. But to see them shrouded in a haze of rage… he hadn’t known how lovely his mate could be. He will never in his life covet another when he already has all he could ever need. Mad with need Gon burns bright as a pyre, torching his own life – Hisoka will gladly lay himself down on that bed of flames. 

But it’s too soon to give into wish fulfilment. He still has work to do. Someone has taken what is beyond any shadow of a doubt what is his. His flesh and blood, his progeny, his pup. That is an unforgivable trespass. All the more unforgivable because of the uncomfortable throbbing in his chest, his tie to Gon who is hurting as he never has before. An alpha protects his pups, but an omega loves them beyond all else. Beyond rhyme and reason, beyond death. 

Hisoka closes his eyes, hand splayed over his heart. Beneath his excitement, his awe at his mate’s bloodlust, he feels a cold icy anger. It’s thick and tough as tundra, unmelting, undying. Hisoka can be pragmatic in his rage, can wait for years to achieve his revenge. But he has never once forgotten a vow, and now in the aftermath of Gon’s fury and his own heart’s traitorous ache, he makes a new one:

_Anyone who is complicit in his pup’s disappearance will die._

Smiling sharply, he steps into the elevator and turns, watches the doors close behind him.

  
***

Hisoka knows the city’s seedy underbelly. It’s been years since he was immersed in it, since the days when he sought to fend off boredom through the dirty work of contract killing. But while names and faces come and go, the haunts of iniquity remain more or less unchanging. Massage parlours, gambling dens, bars that offer access to temptations beyond alcohol. Hisoka has seen it all, has walked under the dark wings of the syndicates without ever feeling their shadow on him. Sex, money, drugs. They hold no sway over him.

He walks through town slowly, his bruised body protesting faintly. Since settling down he’s become pampered, used to creature comforts like ice baths and onsens, silk sheets and his omega close by to fawn over him. Has become lenient, has become weak. 

Pathetic. He spits blood onto the pavement and wipes his chin. He is no tamed pet of the Arena, no caged bird to sing on command. 

Hisoka belongs to no one but Hisoka. And anyone who thinks they can steal from him without reprisal is a fool or a madman. He will show this city exactly who he is: the Grim Reaper. And if whoever has taken his pup tries to bargain for their life, he will show them torment before he grants them the mercy of death.

  
***

The mob territories are further from downtown in the less salubrious neighbourhoods. Here there are no expensive department stores or glittering arcades; the shops here scrape by by the skins of their teeth, small mom and pop businesses. Family restaurants, car washes, corner stores. Easily exploitable, and ripe for petty turf wars.

There’s graffiti on the rough stucco walls and pot-holes in the streets; the city doesn’t spend its tax dollars keeping up appearances here. Fences are chain-link, not wood, and windows are grimy. Hard-bitten, dog-eat-dog neighbourhoods. 

Hisoka strides through them aware that he stands out like a lion among gazelle, and absolutely indifferent to the fact. There are young men in hoodies listening to music on their phones and girls in crop-tops and jean shorts chatting about their nails. They look up as he passes, eyes drawn not to him but to his roiling blood lust. It pours off him like cold from a block of ice, making others on the sidewalk shiver and shuffle away without knowing why. 

Prey instinctively fear predators, even when that predator is upright and clothed. 

There’s a convenience store on the corner, its façade old worm-eaten wood, sun-faded posters in its windows and a dreary _Open!_ sign hanging crookedly on the door. Hisoka steps inside.

The air is old and musty, the laminate floor chipped and dirty. There’s a vomitous stain in the back corner, and a smell of cigarette smoke and bleach – not that anything in sight seems to have been cleaned in the recent past. Hisoka walks up to the counter; there are candy bars on display beneath it and cigarettes in an ancient cabinet behind, along with some X-rated films and pornographic magazines. 

Hisoka picks up a pack of gum and puts it on the counter. The clerk is old and grey and portly, his shirt stained yellow under the armpits and his eyes tired. There’s a fan and a stool behind the counter, his own tiny empire. 

Hisoka pulls out a 200 Jenny bill and puts it on the counter above the gum; it’s ten times the worth of the gum. “I want some information.”

“Selling food, drinks, home supplies, smokes, candy. Not information,” says the clerk in a Lukso accent. 

Hisoka smiles and lets his blood lust deepen, his razor-sharp nails scoring a line on the counter. “Information,” he says again. 

The clerk looks up at him, eyes narrow, afraid. “Like what?”

“Who runs the protection rackets around here? I don’t need names – where can I find them?”

“No rackets, no protection. Only what you see here,” replies the clerk, voice harsh. 

Hisoka presses down on the white laminate countertop with his nails. Applies pressure until it cracks, then shatters, particleboard splintering up into the air. “Where?” he says again. “I’m going to lose my patience soon,” he adds.

The clerk looks at the ruined countertop, then up at Hisoka. “Next street over; Harvey’s Laundromat. They all in there, back room.”

“Thanks,” purrs Hisoka and picks up the gum. He doesn’t bother with change. 

He hears the clerk lock the door after him on his way out.

  
***

Hisoka peels the silver foil of the gum wrapper back and folds the stick into his mouth. Cinnamon and sugar, the initial flavour burst intense.

Around him night is falling, but it’s still early. The kingpins will be going home to their cozy houses and their wives and children around now, steak and wine on the table. But the muscle… the muscle thrives at night. 

To kill time he eats dinner at a family restaurant, the cuisine pasta-based with rich tomato sauce and a bright pop of basil. 

It reminds Hisoka suddenly of Gon’s herb garden, the plants strewn about on the floor of the apartment, dirt everywhere. Reminds him of Gon, lying dazed on the floor, staring up at Hisoka with shocked eyes. Unable to fathom what he’d done, what had become of the pretty, perfect life they’ve been living. 

Hisoka, on the other hand, has never expected it to last forever. He’s lived through several feast-famine cycles, and he knows that happiness is a commodity, not a right. His comfort with their life together was pleasant, but he is strong enough to live through adversity. He has imagined many ways in which their ease could be shattered: a challenge from the Phantom Troupe, a powerful rival within the Arena. Perhaps even something as mundane as sickness.

But losing their pup… no. If Sotto is not recovered, he fears for Gon’s life. Fears his mate has invested too much in the whelp, given too much of himself to him. And if Sotto or Gon dies… if they both die… 

All his calculations, his permutations have assumed that Hisoka would be the one to leave, the one to break their family, either by death or departure. To lose his pup or his mate… there’s a heaviness in his chest that slowly crushes the breath from him, as though he were being pressed. He swallows and feels pain as he chokes his food down past the tightness in his throat. 

Upon taking a mate he had come to realize that there was more to the bond than pleasure, than possession. That it came with unfamiliar, uncomfortable feelings. Fear, vulnerability, peace, happiness. Need – for closeness, for contact, to hold his family in the circle of his arms and turn away all threats. 

And now he’s failed. And now they’re breaking. 

Hisoka feels the fork he’s holding bend in his grip and releases it; it clatters onto the white-clothed table and the waiter hurries over. He waves him away with a brusque movement. Drinks down water that tastes of copper on his tongue; his internal wounds are slathered over with Bungee Gum to hold in the bleeding, but it’s proving less effective than stitches. 

He feels the bond’s need coursing through him, stronger than his icy anger, stronger than his biting pain. He had fought it at first, in the early days of his relationship with Gon. He’s long since given up on that. What he wants and what the bond makes him want – there is no difference. 

Hisoka wants his pup back.

  
***

He drinks wine late into the night, a deep, full-bodied vintage that swirls like blood in his glass. The best the tiny restaurant has, which isn’t saying much. The other patrons come and go, and the waiters tip-toe by him as the night runs on.

Finally, when he’s drunk away some of the sharpness of his need, when he feels a cold numbness like frostbite, he pays and stands. He makes his way out, weaving lithely between the tables, his heels clicking on the floor. No one wishes him a goodnight. 

He’s in the mood for mayhem and murder, for bloodshed under the new moon. He can feel his pulse throbbing in his body, his patience wearing thin. 

Outside he hardly feels the night air on his skin; he walks sinuously down the street, his blood lust thick and opaque. His fingers are itchy, his teeth aching – ready to claw, to bite, his body like an animal’s craving the thrill of ripping, rending, _killing_. His lips slip open, a little moan on his breath. 

He reaches the laundromat and sees that the lights are still on although the front room with the laundry machines is empty, the washers and dryers still. He pushes the door open and a little chime above announces his arrival. 

Hisoka walks around the bank of machines to the door in the back marked private. He puts a stick of gum in his mouth, smiles, and pulls out a pack of cards. 

The door falls in one swift kick, revealing a room with a large round table and a group of thick, muscled men playing cards. They spring to their feet as the door hits the ground, knives and chains coming out, metal glinting in the smoky light. 

“Who the hell d’you think you are?” grunts one of the men. 

“I’m looking for someone. A pup, stolen on his way home from school. The kind of hit that would be easy money for you,” he says, tone sweet. 

“You’ve got the wrong place, buddy.”

“Do I? If you tell me the truth now, I will spare your lives.”

It’s a lie, of course. 

“You can fuck right off, you screwball clown. Vinnie, Marcel; show him the way out.”

Two men with knives step forward. They’re big, bigger than Hisoka. 

He licks his lips. Then he smiles.

  
***

In the end, there’s only one left. A cowering, snivelling man trying to shove himself into a corner, the floor slick with blood and piss. Hisoka steps over a severed arm and raises a card that drips red under the swinging overhead light. The man starts screaming, his hands over his head as though he could hide from his rapidly approaching future. Hisoka kicks him in the gut, hard, and he chokes, the screams stopping.

“Tell me,” purrs Hisoka, squatting down in front of him, “did you take my pup?”

“N-no! I swear! Please! We didn’t touch him! Please don’t kill me – I never touched him!”

“But someone did,” continues the magician, tapping his card against his cheekbone. Ace of Spades. 

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” moans the mobster. 

“If it wasn’t your group, who could it have been?”

The man looks up at him, eyes wide, snot running down his face. “I – maybe the Red Fins! Or the Hive!”

“And where would I find them?”

“The Red Fins have a place in the basement of Angels Awry. The Hive hang out in the abandoned church on Broad.”

“Very good,” praises Hisoka with a smile. 

“Then you’ll let me go?”

Hisoka’s eyes widen. “Why ever would you think so?” he murmurs, and throws the card. 

The head thumps as it hits the floor. 

Hisoka stands, boot drawing a long streaking line in the blood. He reaches down and picks his card out of the wall, licks the blood from its edge. Slowly he turns, looking over the scene behind him.

Chaos and carnage. Delicious. 

But he’s no closer to finding Sotto. Tucking his cards away he reaches up and brushes a blood speck from his cheek with the pad of his thumb. Then he strides out into the front of the laundromat. 

He has more visits to make.

  
***

Hisoka visits the basement hole-up and the old church. Brings murder with him in his pocket like the Reaper he is. When he’s done and the floor is littered with corpses and soaked in blood, some of the tension has eased from his body. The throbbing in his chest fades, his lust slackening.

But he is no further forward in his search for Sotto. None of the mob enforcers would admit to taking the pup, and with the very real likelihood of death awaiting them, Hisoka doesn’t believe they would lie. 

It’s early in the morning now; the sun will be up in a few hours. As pleasant a diversion as this was, he is now without a next step. 

His mind flits back to Gon, to his mate left alone in the wreckage that he caused. 

_He’s gone because of you!_ the omega had said, and however much his rage was driven by his love for his pup rather than any real anger with Hisoka, it’s still true. 

He can do more good on his own, free to enact whatever threats or revenge he sees fit, than tied to Gon. They don’t have time to quarrel, or fret, or falter. 

One way or another, he will find Sotto. Even if he has to cut through the entirety of the underground to do it.


	8. Alone

The hours scrape slowly by like barbs being withdrawn one by one. Poisoned, painful. Information trickles in on the other two possible suspects they had identified using the Arena footage. One has left town and one is fighting here in the Arena with no other dwelling. 

If Sotto were in the Arena, Gon would know, would smell him in the entranceway or the elevators. He does a slow tour of the Arena just to be sure, checking every access point, every stairwell and elevator. 

Nothing. 

Night falls, Killua begging him to eat again, ordering hot foot and placing it under his nose until he begrudgingly chews a few mouthfuls. He doesn’t even notice the flavour, his mind circling anxiously, desperately. 

Why haven’t they found anything yet?

As night comes in earnest, Killua leaves for a while and then returns. He has a packet of pills with him. “I want you to take one,” he says, thumbing a small white pill out. “You need to sleep. You’re a mess, Gon.”

“Drugs? I can’t – if something comes up –”

“It will just help you relax. You’ll still wake up if something happens. You need to rest. Your mind needs to rest; you’re so strung out you’re exhausting yourself.” He fetches a glass of water from the kitchen and stands over Gon, his scent strong, commanding. “Drink,” he says, holding out the pill. 

Gon looks at it. Reaches out slowly and takes it, puts it on his tongue. It has a sharp, bitter taste. He takes the water and swallows it down. 

“Rest. Please,” says Killua, eyes soft. 

Gon gets up, trudges into his room, and goes to bed.

  
***

He doesn’t remember his dreams, but he feels as though he was running all night in his sleep, searching down endless dark corridors that all turned out to be dead ends. When he wakes his body is heavy, leaden. Gon drags himself out of bed and showers, trying to wash away the hopelessness that feels as though it stole over him in the night.

He dresses in clean clothes and towels his hair dry, not bothering to style it. Out in the main room Killua’s on his computer. He looks up at Gon’s entrance, face falling slightly. 

“What?” says Gon.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Yeah. But I feel…” He feels dead inside. Like a hollow tree, its centre eaten away by termites, just waiting for one strong wind to blow it over. He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. What’s new?”

“Nothing much. Some more leads crossed off, that’s all. I made pancakes for myself – there’s more batter on the counter.”

Gon goes over into the kitchen, the island still just a hulking carcass, and turns on the stove. Heats up a pan and slowly pours out the batter. Browns it, then flips. Clear, repeat. 

He dumps the plate on the now-shaky table and eats a few bites; the sweetness makes his stomach turn. He manages to choke down one, then shoves the plate away, cutlery clattering onto the table. Killua looks up. “Gon?”

“It’s nothing.” 

Killua bites his lip but doesn’t reply, turns slowly back to the computer. 

Gon gets up to clear the plate away, and the doorbell rings. 

They both shoot up but Gon gets there first, beating Killua on a speed challenge for the first time in his life. He rips the door open and a startled bellboy takes a step back.

There’s a box in his hands. 

“Um,” says the bellboy, but Gon’s already grabbed the box, is tearing it open madly as the door swings shut.

“Gon – stop! We need the label.” Killua tries to take the box from him and Gon hunches, growls low and dangerous. Killua freezes. “Just – open it carefully, okay?”

He stares, panting, then takes a gentler grip and rips the cardboard open from the side, exposing the interior. He smells Sotto’s scent immediately – and no blood. Calming now, he reaches in. 

Sotto’s ponytail is inside, sliced off just above the tie, the end thick and blunt. The green-black hair shines in the light, glossy as a chestnut. 

Gon drops the box, cardboard falling from his dull fingers. He stares at the sheaf of hair in his hands, cut free in a single stroke by a blade. 

The fact of a knife so close to Sotto’s neck makes his skin crawl, makes it burn. He pulls the hair up and buries his nose in it, takes in the deep scent of his pup. A low, pained sound escapes his throat. 

With his eyes closed he can see his son so clearly, so vividly. He needs him back, needs to hold him and nuzzle him and hug his fears away. 

Needs to _ruin_ whoever took him. 

He opens his eyes and sees Killua kneeling beside the box, examining it. He pulls out a piece of paper and his face darkens. 

“What?” growls Gon, jaw tense. 

Killua looks up at him. His eyes are wide, worried. Gon reaches out and snatches the paper. 

_Next time won’t be something that grows back._

He stares at the words, written in black ink on plain white paper. 

The words that seal the fate of the one who took Sotto. 

He crumples the paper and lets it drop to the floor. Sotto’s hair he carries, cradling it gently, crossing into his pup’s room and laying it down on his dresser like a shrine. Killua follows him to the doorway but doesn’t enter, Gon’s mood dangerous. 

“Can we track this box?” Gon asks eventually, looking up.

Killua stares back. “We can try.”

“Then let’s try.” This time, though, he feels no hope. Only a sense of inevitability. Maybe this will work, maybe it won’t. But eventually, somehow, he will find Sotto. He has to.

  
***

The same courier was used, but a different depot. They get in contact with Yamto, who directs them to the manager of the new drop-off facility.

It’s an older woman named Maran, her hair long and grey, her face stern. 

“I have five clerks working to take in packages, and they’re receiving more than two dozen parcels an hour. I can’t tell you which one took this in,” she says, frowning down at the half-shredded box. By Killua’s quick intervention the label had been saved, but it doesn’t seem to do much good. 

“Then let us talk to all of them,” says Killua. 

“And pull them off desk work? Not likely.”

Gon looks up, his anger quickening. His eyes are narrow, hard as nails, his hands fisted. He can feel the reek of threat pouring off him; he sees her nose twitch, her eyes widen. 

“If we talk to them one at a time?” suggests Killua, glancing at Gon with worried eyes. 

She hesitates, and Gon puts weight on his heel. The cement floor cracks beneath him. She caves. “Alright. But only a few minutes each.”

Killua’s got the pictures of all their suspects – such as they are – on his phone. He shows them to the clerks one by one. 

No one identifies any of them. No one remembers the parcel. 

No leads. 

Outside, Gon kicks a sidewalk-mounted mailbox. It flies clean across the road and craters into a stone wall. He feels hot, skin prickling, breaths coming more quickly. Feels uncomfortable in his body. Feels like he’s losing control.

  
***

Gon gets a call from Zushi while they’re driving back to the Arena.

“Gon! I’ve got some news. Well, maybe. There’s a fighter in the Arena with a major grudge against Hisoka who’s been making big boasts for more than a month now – talking about how he’s going to cut Hisoka down to size. His brother was killed in the ring,” he adds. 

Gon feels his breath catch. “Where is he?”

“Gon, maybe I should talk to him, see –”

“ _Where?_ ” snarls Gon, working to keep from crushing his phone. 

“Room 20020. His name is Aul.”

Gon hangs up without answering; turns to Killua. “Step on it.”

  
***

They take the elevator straight up to the 200th floor. Gon feels strange – hot and tense and anxious. He ignores it: what he feels isn’t important.

He doesn’t bother to knock on the door of 20020. Simply kicks it down, the solid oak door flying backwards and hitting the window on the far side of the room. The thick glass cracks. 

“What the fuck,” begins the man inside, tall and tanned with long ropey arms and a squint. He’s an alpha, his scent in his own territory strong – a harsh smell of paint thinner and vermouth. It rubs over Gon’s skin, uncomfortable but also energizing. It coats his insides like liquid fire, driving him forward. His nose is overly-sensitive, aware of every tiny cue the alpha gives off: confidence, superiority, sudden alarm. 

“One chance,” snarls Gon, kicking his legs out from under him and slamming him head-first into the floor before he can react, his hand gripping Aul’s neck. “Where’s. My. Pup?”

It would be so easy to press just a little harder. To crush cartilage, crush bone. He hovers over Aul’s face, lips pulled back, teeth bare. Instincts are taking over, his body pushing itself against this arrogant alpha’s, his breath racing. 

“W-wha?” chokes the fighter, his pupils pinpricks, his skin sweaty and thick with the scent of challenge; Gon soaks it in. He relaxes his grip slightly, sitting straddling Aul’s waist and pinning him to the floor. His hips are loose, the back of his mind suddenly very aware of the heat Aul is giving off, the firmness of his body beneath Gon’s. He shifts, an unexpected surge of hunger rising in him. 

“My pup. _Hisoka’s_ pup,” he grits out. Aul’s eyes widen. 

“Lost something, did you? Little omega?” he lets out a coughing laugh. 

Gon punches him in the stomach, hard, and he spits bile. 

“ _Where?_ ”

“I don’t have your fucking pup. I don’t need a handicap to beat your asshole of a mate. Although I _am_ surprised he let you out like this.” His hands come up from behind Gon, gripping his thighs and running up to caress his ass.

He feels a surge of heat, feels his entrance growing slick. Aul’s scent grows predatory, arousing, and Gon’s stomach turns. This isn’t right – isn’t the right scent, the right touch – he sucks in a confused breath. Aul smirks and digs his fingers into his ass. 

Which is when Killua flies in out of nowhere and kicks Aul in the head. He rolls to the side, limp. Unconscious.

Killua grabs Gon by the arm, his body heavy, muscles unresponsive. The feeling of a warm, toned body beneath his is _good_ , is right. He rolls his hips, sighing slightly. 

“You’re going into heat,” grunts Killua, dragging him up off Aul. “Gon! We need to get you out of here.”

Gon turns his head against Killua’s shoulder. The alpha’s half-dragging, half-carrying him, his scent of ozone and rainfall thick in Gon’s nose, ratcheting towards hunger. His shirt is soft, his skin warm beneath it. Gon feels conflicted, confused. His body is aching for touch, for stimulation. But he doesn’t feel comforted, doesn’t feel fulfilled by Killua’s presence. He looks up: Killua’s irises are just thin rings of blue around immense pupils, his lips hanging open. 

Hunger. 

Killua gets him to the elevator and props him up against the wall, Gon feeling the heat beginning to overcome him in earnest. His skin is fiery, his stomach roiling with need. He’s half-hard, his underwear damp with slick. He leans his head sensuously back and moans, eyelids flickering in the bright light. 

“Fuck,” says Killua, from what sounds like very far away. “Fucking shit balls.”

Gon’s nose is twitching, seeking out his mate’s scent. The elevator dings and he staggers out onto his floor, Hisoka’s smell stronger here. He follows it to the apartment, but although he can smell his mate he knows he’s not here, the space open, empty. He digs his hand into the wall, swaying. “ _Hisoka._ ”

He needs the magician. Needs his touch, his tongue, his prick. Needs licks over his mark and hot skin against his and the firm, frantic thrust of him inside. He wants to taste Hisoka’s sex, to be enveloped in his scent, to be shoved down into the mattress and fucked. 

He _needs_ it. He can feel his glands releasing thick musky aroma to draw alphas to him. 

Behind him, the door closes. A warm body presses in close, firm chest against his back, a nose touching against his neck. “Gon,” whispers Killua, his lips against Gon’s back soft and tender. His hands are on Gon’s shoulders, holding him. 

Slowly his scent rolls over Gon: hunger, arousal. Possession. 

“I’ll stay, if you want. You don’t have to be alone. Just this once… just one time…” He moans quietly, body pressing closer, his hardness against Gon’s ass. His breath is heavy, hot against Gon’s back. 

Gon wraps his arms around his stomach, digs his fingers into his skin. His guts are twisting, sickened inside him. Killua’s scent smears over his skin like tar, hot and burning and ugly. He doesn’t want this touch, this presence. 

This isn’t his mate. 

He groans, and Killua presses a kiss to his neck. It’s not over his mark but it’s near it, the hot wetness close to Hisoka’s brand. 

Gon reacts instinctively, elbows jamming backwards, and breaks away. He’s breathing hard, vision dark, but he can see Killua staring at him. Can see the twined hurt and desire in his best friend’s face. 

“No,” pants Gon. “I’m not yours.”

Killua’s face twists, pained. “Gon…”

“Go!”

Killua stays still, only his shoulders rising with his forceful breaths, his scent powerful, wanting. His eyes are wild, filled with desire, his hands tightening. For a moment Gon thinks he will leap, will fight him, will take him. He tenses, ready to protect his bond. 

Then Killua turns and leaves, door clicking shut behind him. 

Gon stumbles into the wall, catches himself, and presses his fingers to his mark. His body is burning, trembling with need, crying out with it.

_Hisoka!_

  
***

He’s rapidly losing his higher-order thoughts, instincts taking over. He fills the bath with cold water and gets ice from the freezer, dumps it in. He strips his clothes off and tumbles into the tub, the cold water only partially quieting the fire that burns inside him. He’s so full of unslaked need; it rubs against him like a grater, peeling him raw.

It’s not his first heat alone since being mated to Hisoka; there have been a few times when the alpha happened to be travelling out of town over his heat, Gon mad with misery and need. He knows to keep cool, to play with himself, to fill his ass with the toys they rarely use in the bedroom; none of it holds a candle to the touch of his mate. He knows his absence makes Hisoka anxious too, his voice harsh and raw over calls in the lulls of the heat. 

When the ice has melted he drains the tub and crawls out, dries himself off and stumbles across the room to his bed. He lies face down, hips thrusting weakly against the sheets, starving for friction. He’s hard already, burying his face in a pillow and rutting into the mattress, his legs spread. His mind is full of Hisoka: imagining his mate here, behind him. Longs for his rubbery fingers plunging into him, stretching him, filling him. Imagines the strong press of his fat cock inside Gon, driving him mad with pleasure, his nails digging into Gon’s hips with bloody tips that only enhance the ecstasy. 

He moans and reaches down, slides two fingers inside himself, stroking futily. He curves and spreads the digits, trying to fill himself, to relieve the pounding lust inside him. It’s like trying to scratch an itch with a feather. 

He touches himself until he’s panting, until his hips are shoving violently into the mattress, his cock weeping and needy. This powerful he can smell himself, the stench of sweat and sex and omega pheromones flooding the room. But there are no alphas to attract, no one to relieve the pressure hammering inside him. 

Gon reaches into the bedside table and draws out a dildo, thick as Hisoka’s cock with a slight curve and a fat head. He shoves it in, panting, hips thrusting in time with it. 

It takes nearly ten minutes of working himself with the toy to bring him to completion; Gon cries out brokenly as the orgasm is ripped from him, agonizing and torturous in its build-up. He collapses onto the damp sheets, dildo still inside him, filling him in a way that doesn’t feel right but is better than nothing. 

The wave of the heat hasn’t broken, though, hasn’t passed. He’s still burning up, his ass still hungry for more. He shifts and the toy presses deep inside him; he draws a breath, hips twitching, cock already beginning to throb. 

Gon whimpers and buries his head in the pillow.

  
***

He has no sense of time, only knows the pounding cycle of need/touch/release. But there’s nothing satisfying in getting himself off and the heat is intense, unbroken because of it. He’s growing exhausted but is still so full of lust; it saturates him, filling him, consuming him. Each orgasm is simply the gateway to more need.

Gon makes more ice and sits in the tub, tries packing his groin with bags of frozen vegetables; the relief is short-lived, negligible. His mind is hazy with the heat lust, unable to think of anything but the need to be satisfied.

  
***

More. More. More. He thrusts the dildo deep inside him, hips canting furiously against the mattress. Fulfilment is so far away, his unslakable want pricking his skin like barbed wire. It digs in deeper and deeper, the toy no longer satisfying, the sheets nowhere near enough. He’s going to die if he isn’t fucked, is going to be torn apart and burnt to a crisp by the heat raging inside him. He keens as he thrusts, desperate, hungry.

From behind him, he suddenly hears a soft step. A thick, rolling, delicious scent fills the room. Cotton candy and sun-drenched steel. Claw-tipped fingers wrap around his neck, a hand drawing the toy out of his ass so that he whines, rising onto his knees. 

“What _have_ you been doing?” purrs a soft, throaty voice, nose against his neck. 

_Hisoka._


	9. Together

Hisoka’s hand is wrapped over his windpipe, nails digging into the soft side of Gon’s neck. His face is close beside his fingers, his breath on Gon’s throat. His body is just slightly out of reach behind Gon, his scent washing over him like sea spray: sharp and refreshing. 

“Tell me, Gon,” murmurs the magician, playing the tip of the dildo over Gon’s entrance; Gon’s hips jerk, a low sound of hunger escaping his lips. “Why do you smell of Killua?”

Gon tilts his head backwards, further exposing his throat, nuzzling his head against Hisoka’s. “Killua?” he breathes, mind several heartbeats behind. 

“Hunger, possession. His lips against your skin,” whispers Hisoka. The dildo presses inside, just the fat head breaching him, then slips out again leaving him bereft. 

“No… sent him away,” pants Gon, thoughts indistinct, falling through his grip like water. All he knows is the firmness of Hisoka’s grip, the rich smell of his arousal, the coy press of the toy against his hole. 

“Mm, not soon enough.” Hisoka’s thumb passes along his throat, tipping Gon’s chin even higher. “Have you been stealing kisses? Taking another into your bed?” His voice is low, fey, his nails like razors. 

“I want you. Only you. _Please!_ ” 

“Is that what you deserve? When you’ve been so naughty?” The toy dips in, stretching him, teasing him; Gon presses back, breathing hard. “Perhaps you deserve to be punished.”

“ _Hisoka_ ,” he groans, arching backwards, turning his head in the hopes of a kiss. 

Hisoka throws him down onto the bed, Gon hitting the mattress hard and turning over, naked and flushed. Hisoka is staring down at him from on high, one hand on his hip, the other raising the silicone dildo to his mouth; he runs his tongue along its tip, tasting Gon’s slick. 

Gon pants as he looks up, legs spread and knees raised, eager for Hisoka’s touch. 

Hisoka smiles cruelly. “I prefer to watch,” he says. “I want to see how it is you amuse yourself when I’m not here. Well? Show me.”

Gon gives him a confused look, still waiting for Hisoka to come to him.

“Go on,” purrs the magician. “I want to see it.”

Slowly, comprehension dawning on him that his mate isn’t budging, Gon reaches down. Takes his hard cock in hand and begins to stroke it, the throbbing skin slick with cum from his previous ejaculations. His breathing quickens, Hisoka’s gold eyes dancing as they watch him. He rolls his head back, pleasure arching his spine, his lust-dulled eyes staring up at the ceiling. It’s a shallow, unsatisfying kind of gratification. 

“Hisoka,” he pleads, desperate. 

“Mm-mm,” scolds the alpha, tone coy. 

Gon runs his thumb along the underside of his cock, just a hint of his nail in the touch, the way Hisoka does it. His hips thrust upwards towards the ceiling, lust crashing through him. He moans, his core hot and aching to be filled. He twists his free hand down behind, between his legs and slides three fingers in. It’s tight but at this angle he can get hardly any depth at all. He bites his lip and lets out a hungry groan, rutting his fingers in and out, his ass wet with slick. 

Hisoka’s eyes shine like stars, glittering in his pale face. His breathing is coming fast, his skin glowing with sweat. Gon can smell his arousal, his hunger. But he holds himself back, restrains himself and watches as Gon fucks himself with his fingers, the tight wet feel of it good but still lacking, still not _enough_.

“ _Hisoka_ ,” he keens, body afire, every touch, every stroke only stoking his lust. His pulse is throbbing in his cock, at the ring of his entrance, pounding with desire. “ _Hisoka, please._ ”

The alpha steps forward, dropping the toy onto the bed beside his mate. Slowly he gets to his knees at the foot of the bed and reaches out. He catches hold of Gon’s knees and pulls them apart, splays them like a butterfly’s wings. Gon’s hand slips out of his ass, the other stilling. His cock stands to attention, precum spilling down from the slit. 

Hisoka leans forward and presses a kiss to the inside of Gon’s knee. He licks the sweat pooling there, his tongue hot and moist; the touch of him sends an intense throb through Gon, his body trembling. “Touch me,” he moans, throwing his head back, his naked chest rising and falling like a bellows. 

Slowly, his eyes on Gon’s and a sharp smile on his lips, Hisoka presses kisses in a line rising up Gon’s thigh. His speed is agonizingly slow, the kisses wet and sucking, his teeth nipping Gon’s skin. Gon moans wordlessly, slick-covered fingers twitching against the duvet cover. 

Each kiss seems to last a lifetime, heat burning beneath Gon’s skin like gasoline. Finally, finally he reaches the place where Gon’s thigh meets his torso, his nearby balls sweaty and slick. Hisoka raises his head until his mouth is less than a centimeter from the tip of Gon’s prick, so close he can feel his breath on his over-sensitive skin. 

“Did you touch Killua?” he asks, words ghosting like blows over Gon’s cock. He shivers, biting back a cry. 

“No.”

“Did you kiss him?”

Gon shakes. “No.”

“Did you fuck him?”

His entire body is trembling, need crushing him. “ _No_.”

“Who do you belong to, Gon?”

“You. Only you. Only you, Hisoka,” he cries, on the verge of tears from the agony of waiting. 

“Then beg for what you want,” purrs the alpha, his lips shining, his eyes like gold foil – bright and reflective. 

“ _Please_ ,” pants Gon, raising his hips, head thrown back. “ _Oh please, Hisoka._ ”

The alpha makes a soft sound of pleasure, and dips his head forward. In one movement he takes Gon’s cock into his mouth, into the tight hot heat, his tongue stroking it. Gon gives a shuddering cry, hips thrusting up, shoving his cock desperately deeper. 

Hisoka growls and shoves him down, holding his hips pinned to the bed; he rises, taking his mouth away. “Naughty,” he coos. “What if I bit it off?”

He picks up the toy from the bed and, hitching Gon’s knees up, pushes it inside him. Strokes it in and out, the feeling of being filled releasing a tiny amount of the tension in Gon’s body. 

“Look at you, so hungry for me. So eager, so dirty, all covered in your own cum.” He shoves the toy in, the tip rutting up against Gon’s prostate; he gasps. “Mm, I _do_ like seeing you like this. Undone, desperate. Even this toy isn’t enough, is it?” 

“Hisoka…” He’s losing his mind, is only need, an empty chasm begging to be filled. He’s getting closer, pressure building inside him, pleasure coating him. “Nnh!”

Hisoka leans over him, mouth close to his ear, breath hot. “You drive me wild, Gon,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t forgive anyone else. Mm, no, no one but you.” He pulls the toy out and Gon sobs, so suddenly bereft. 

Then Hisoka’s shoving down his trousers and pressing in, his cock inside Gon, thick and hard and hot, rutting up into him at a merciless pace. Gon grabs hold of his shoulders, digs his fingers into the solidity of his mate’s firm muscles, lifts his hips for him. Tears are running down his face, tears of need, tears of joy. Hisoka licks them away, growling as he fucks him senseless. 

This is what he’s been missing, what he’s been longing for. This closeness, this smell, this relentless pounding. It fills him with bliss, with a pleasure that overrides the fire inside him. Gon feels the orgasm coming, pulls himself up against his mate and cries out with it, shoving himself down onto Hisoka’s cock and clenching around it. 

He feels Hisoka spurt off inside him, feels the sudden wetness of his seed. They collapse onto the bed, Hisoka still buried deep. He bends his neck and presses his lips to Gon’s neck. Licks at the mark there, contentment blossoming inside the omega. 

Gon closes his eyes and lets sleep finally take him.

  
***

When he wakes next his hips are already jerking into the sheets, his body hungry again. He mewls and Hisoka rolls over heavily, presses Gon’s chest into the mattress and slips his Bungee Gum fingers into Gon’s ass. They’re thick, so thick, filling him up until he moans with it, halfway to climax already. Hisoka works him slowly, his head heavy on Gon’s shoulder, only sliding in at the end to fuck Gon. He lies over his mate like a blanket, just his hips moving, thrusting home.

It’s still satisfying, build-up tense and eager in Gon’s stomach before he moans and spills, a hot wet pool growing under him. Hisoka keeps going for several minutes longer, long enough that Gon grows hard again, arousal coming around in a whip-tight circle. 

Hisoka cums inside him and lays flat for a moment until Gon mewls again, his hips still hungry, his cock throbbing. The alpha turns him over and takes him in his hand, works him off with sharp, firm strokes. 

When it’s over the room reeks of sex and pheromones, of arousal and need and possession. Dizzy, some of the heat fading, Gon crawls out of the bed to the bathroom.

As he pads away from Hisoka his brain slowly begins to unfog; he pisses and then takes a shower, washing himself off. 

It’s only as he’s under the lukewarm water that the events of the preceding days come back to him. 

The blood-soaked hat.

The shorn hair. 

_Sotto!_

Gon drops to his knees in the shower stall, hard, wrapping his arms around himself. The water pours over his head, into his mouth as he struggles to breathe, memories torturing him. 

Sotto’s gone. His pup has been taken, and he’s _here_ , in bed. 

His stomach clenches, then spasms. Liquid and bile rise and he retches, vomit washing down the drain. He feels suddenly cold and shaky, his trembling hands pressed to the tiled floor. 

A shadow falls over him and he looks up. Hisoka steps into the shower, turning off the water. He bends to one knee beside Gon, his movements stiff. “What?”

“ _Sotto_ ,” keens Gon, the only thought in his mind. He’s shaking, breathing harsh. He presses himself against Hisoka, the magician sinking closer and drawing him in against his chest. Hisoka is strong, unrelenting, his candy and steel scent penetrating even the reek of vomit. “Sotto,” he whispers against Hisoka, fingers digging into his mate. 

It’s only now, in the bathroom’s bright light, that he notices the bruising on Hisoka’s chest, the black and blue welts covering his torso. Guilt twists the knife deeper and he shakes. He feels like the world is falling apart, like he’s been dropped out of an airship, is free-falling towards the earth. 

Seconds from the end of everything. 

“Pay attention, Gon,” orders the alpha, his scent suddenly commanding; Gon feels himself tensing, listening. “I will find the pup and bring him home. Do you hear me?”

Gon looks up at him, water trickling down from his wet hair over his face. 

“Have I ever failed?” demands the magician. 

Gon shakes his head once, still holding his mate, still pressed close. 

“Then believe it,” commands the alpha. His nails dig into Gon’s chin, drawing his face upwards. His eyes are glinting like old coins, hard, intense. 

Slowly, he bends and kisses Gon, his tongue sweeping into the omega’s mouth, pressing for dominance. Gon feels a flicker of heat kindling inside him as his self-disgust fades. He melts against Hisoka, body supple, pliant against his mate. 

Hisoka reaches down and pushes his legs apart then, grinning into the kiss, works his hand up Gon’s thigh. He finds his cock and strokes it; the heat flares to life, Gon gasping into the kiss. His back arches, pushing him up against Hisoka. 

“ _Mmmine_ ,” growls Hisoka, swinging him up to his feet and pressing him against the wall. Gon closes his eyes and lets himself be ravished.

  
***

The heat lasts through the night and into the next day, the two of them catching sleep in between matings. It’s more intense than Gon’s heats have been for years, his mind hazy for most of the time.

When it finally passes Hisoka rolls off him with a groan, arm thrown over his bruised chest. Gon lies beside him and gentles him, stroking his firm muscles with soft touches and pressing kisses to his good hand. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, stroking his cheek against Hisoka’s palm

Yellow eyes stare at him, hooded and watchful. “Sorry? For acting as your heart told you?”

“That wasn’t my heart. It was hormones, instincts. My heart is yours, Hisoka.”

“And yet, you were so beautiful,” murmurs the magician dreamily, lying back. “I’ve never found you as lovely as I did then. Exquisite.”

Gon gives a last kiss to Hisoka’s fingertips, then gets up. “I need to check the forums,” he says.

“Forums?”

Gon nods. “We’ve been busy since you left.”

  
***

Twenty minutes later they’re both showered and dressed, sitting on the scored couch reading Gon’s laptop. There’s an update from Leorio confirming that Silk Shields rented an apartment in York Shin City, and further tabs on the other suspect who left town.

There’s also a text on his phone from Killua:

_I’m sorry. I fucked up. Can we just forget it?  
Text me when you’re back online._

Gon stares at the words on the screen. His memory is hazy, but he can still feel Killua’s lips against his skin, the solidity of his body pulling Gon in close. 

The wrongness of his scent. 

In all the years since becoming Hisoka’s mate, he’s never even considered being unfaithful. Not even for Killua. The memory of his offer bites like an adder, deep and poisonous. Right now, he doesn’t want to see the former assassin, doesn’t want to think about him until this is over and he’s had time to clear his head. 

But he doesn’t have the luxury of time. He needs Killua to find Sotto. 

He texts one single word: _Back._

Then he puts down his phone to concentrate on scanning the forums.

  
***

Lunch passes; without Killua there neither of them eat. Hisoka had made food for them as the heat waned, keeping them full and fit. He doesn’t want anything other than his pup.

He’s just going down a rabbit hole of posts speculating on the exact motive of the kidnapper when the doorbell rings. 

Gon makes to get it but his body is heavy from the heat, muscles reacting limply; Hisoka beats him to it. 

Bellboy. Box. 

Hisoka takes it and closes the door, looking down at the parcel in his hands. 

Gon makes a low sound in his throat and the alpha looks over.

Even from across the room, Gon can smell the blood. His heart constricts painfully and he doubles over, suddenly full of dread. _Next time won’t be something that grows back._ “Blood,” he grits out. 

Hisoka uses his nails to slice open the top of the package as Gon forces himself to cross over. Hisoka’s staring into the box, his face stony and eyes narrowed. 

Gon looks down into the box, and the world seems to shrink, sound and smell and even light cutting out. 

There’s a child’s finger in the bottom of the box.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be wrapping up in the next couple of chapters.


	10. Rebirth

Gon feels himself plummeting like a stone. Dropping deeper, deeper, blackness closing over him. He falls past old memories, old horrors, wave after wave of chilling emotions washing over him. It’s like sinking to the bottom of the sea: there’s nothing but darkness and intense pressure here. No sound, no smells, no light.

Here, alone in the darkness, the pressure crushes him like foil. Squeezes out hope and love and joy. Squeezes out warmth.

Squeezes out the desire to live. 

All it leaves is determination, hard as diamond and glinting coldly. For this finger, for Sotto, he will kill. There is no other way. Time can be tricked by nen and death by medicine, but his revenge is inescapable. 

He remembers this feeling, slips inside it as though into a second skin. Feels power – real, limitless power – flow through him. It separates him from the world beyond, leaves him totally alone. 

“Gon! _Gon!_ ”

Gon looks up slowly. He feels strange, different, at once both heavy and light as though weighted down by an immense burden but unaffected by it. 

Hisoka and Killua are staring at him. He can’t read the expressions on their faces, their eyes wide and mouths open. He can see their auras flickering around them, the energy of their lives pulsing. His own aura is dark, lifeless. Foreboding. 

He looks down at the box. At the tiny, perfect pinky finger in the bottom, blood smeared on the cardboard. Killua steps forward to take it from him and Gon catches his wrist as gently as cherry blossoms on the breeze. Squeezes.

Killua drops to his knees, his face whitening. 

“Where. Is. My. _Pup_?”

“Gon – please – I’ve got news. It’s Silk – she’s been seen on the edge of town. The move to York Shin was a cover. It must be her. _Gon!_ ” His face tightens in pain, his free hand scrabbling at Gon’s unforgiving grip. 

Gon stares down at him, mind icy as a glacier. 

Hisoka steps forward. He has eyes only for Gon. “Release him and we will go.”

Gon looks at Killua, legs splayed under him, breathing hard as he tries to free his hand. Gon opens his grip and he falls backwards with a cry. He scrambles to his feet, expression watchful. “Gon, if you give me the box, I’ll take care of the finger. It could still be reattached, if we find him soon enough.” This time, though, he doesn’t move to take the box. 

Gon’s eyes fall to the parcel. The little finger is pale, the nail cut in a perfect half-moon, the bed still tinted pearl-pink. He reaches in and lays his index finger alongside it, dwarfing it. It’s cool, limp. 

Severed. 

“Give it to him, Gon,” says Hisoka. Slowly, slow as a snake uncurling, Gon pushes the box forward to Killua. He takes it carefully and hurries into the kitchen, running the sink and searching through banged-up drawers. 

While he’s busy Hisoka reaches out and tilts Gon’s chin upwards, examining him. “Quite beautiful,” he says softly. “Nothing but stone-cold determination all the way through. Your nen is a portent, dark as death. How I’ve longed for it.” His thumb brushes over Gon’s mark; he doesn’t react. He’s beyond lust, beyond need. His nen coats his skin like mail, insulating him, protecting him. 

Isolating him. 

Hisoka’s eyebrow rises, but he says nothing. 

Killua comes out of the kitchen with wide eyes, his wrist already a deep ugly red. “Gon, you don’t have to do it like this. We’ll get him back – you’re strong enough already. I don’t want – I don’t want you to give up on everything again. Sotto needs more than a rescue; he needs his Dad.”

“Let’s go,” says Hisoka. 

Killua looks at him. “Hisoka – you don’t understand. He’s risking everything to kill whoever took Sotto. He doesn’t need to. You have to make him stop, or –”

His mate turns to Killua, eyes sharp. “You think I would interfere with his vengeance?”

“You don’t _know_ – what will happen, what he’ll become –”

“No,” replies Hisoka coldly. “You still don’t see who he is at heart. You still think of him as sweet, innocent, needing your protection. But he is stronger than you, and stronger than me. All he needs from us is to not interfere.”

“Killua,” says Gon, words slow to come to his mind. “Take me to Sotto.”

Killua looks at him, and Gon can see the fear in his eyes now, the sadness. But after a minute he nods hesitantly. “Okay. Okay, let’s go.”

They go.

  
***

They put Gon in the backseat of the car they rent, Hisoka driving and Killua giving directions. Gon stares straight ahead the whole time, ignoring the occasional discussion of routes and close-cut lane changes from the front seat.

Here, in the depths of his own darkness, there is nothing. No hope of rescue, no anticipation of reunion or expectation of joy or sorrow. No wish for comfort or yearning for Sotto’s safety.

There is just cold certainty: he will kill the alpha. In the windswept plain of his mind, icy-hard and empty, that certainty rises like a diamond plinth. Nothing, not joy or rage or despair, can dent it. And nothing, not Killua’s pleading words or tears, will stop him.

  
***

Time passes without Gon being aware of it; they drive out of town and through the suburbs and into farmland, the fields wide and separated by hedges and fences. The cars here are fewer, older, rusty and banged up. There are barns and grain silos, and occasionally rising out of ploughed fields, one large untouched tree that towers like a landmark. Farmers respect the strength of nature far more than city-folk.

They pull into a long dirt drive that leads to a big wooden house, grey with white windows, with a car at the top of the driveway. “She’s here,” says Killua. “One of Leorio’s sources trailed her from town back here.”

“Sotto,” growls Gon. Killua glances over his shoulder at him.

“He didn’t see him,” he answers. 

Gon pushes the door open and steps out. Hisoka’s parked at the bottom of the drive to keep the element of surprise; he walks up towards the house unaware of anything other than the dark door on the porch. He doesn’t know or care if Hisoka and Killua are following. He simply marches up the dirt drive. 

He passes the car at the top of the drive, its engine pinging as it cools; it was driven recently. 

When he’s almost to the steps leading up to the porch the door slams open. Gon looks up to see a woman – _the woman_ – with long dark hair fly out, her face wild. 

In her hands is a bloody butcher’s knife. Her smell is feral: sawdust and gasoline at their most pungent, most corrosive. 

All he can smell is blood, his pup’s wet blood, coating the knife. She raises it, brandishes it like a sword and slashes at him.

With one hand, he catches the knife and clenches his hand, shattering it. 

With his other he grabs her face and squeezes. His momentum carries him forward and he slams her skull down into the hard earth, her body describing a neat arc. 

Her bones crunch like an egg. Blood flows slickly out of her smashed mouth and nose, out of the back of her head. 

Her body kicks once, then falls back. Limp. Dead. 

He stares down at her motionless corpse, face crushed inwards, blood bubbling up like a grotesque fountain. As he breathes he feels warmth growing inside him, feels the glacial freeze of his determination to murder melting. 

With the alpha’s death his task has been accomplished, and he slips out of the skin of a killer like an infant leaving its mother’s womb. He feels raw, naked, his limitless strength gone. It’s been replaced by burning rage and biting fear. 

On the dirt beside her corpse is the shattered remains of the knife, the blade that took Sotto’s hair, his finger, and what else? There’s no time to wonder, no time to despair.

Gon runs forward, leaps over the alpha’s body and rips up the stairs, into the house. He’s no longer frozen and his thoughts flood through his mind at a mile a minute, hopes and fears and nightmares ripping at him. He follows the scent of blood through a wide living room and an old-fashioned dining room into a kitchen with a small table and chairs tucked away in a nook. 

There’s drying blood on the table, on the chair, and loose rope on the floor. 

No sign of Sotto. 

He turns just as Hisoka slams in after him. The magician’s eyes take in the bloody scene of their son’s captivity, his mouth an ugly line. He reeks of anger, a dangerous searing scent. 

Gon turns around once, sharply, in the small confines of the kitchen. His eyes search the room desperately, futily. Sotto isn’t here. 

Hisoka picks up the ropes and raises them to his nose. “He was here,” he says, voice rough. “Find him. Gon. _Find him_.”

Gon closes his eyes and pinches his nose. The scent of blood and the alpha is strong, almost overpowering. He moves through the house, trying to pick up Sotto’s scent. It’s not anywhere inside. 

He leaves the house by the front door and out on the porch picks up a soft, familiar scent: Hisoka’s marking and his, soap and shampoo. And blood. He vaults over the railing and follows it through the field beside the house; it’s fallow and growing grass, already knee-high. He hears Hisoka follow him, his mate not bothering to hide the sound of his footfalls. 

There’s a tree in the distance, a tall, flourishing oak with an immense trunk and thick limbs. The scent leads in that direction. 

“Sotto!” He’s shouting now, running desperately. “ _Sotto!_ ”

There’s a crackle of old branches in the tree, and a pair of golden eyes look down from amid the branches. “Daddy!”

He’s there an instant later, catching his pup as he scrambles down out of the tree, scooping him up into his arms and falling into the thick grass with him. He presses kisses to the crown of his head, to his dirty forehead, to his blood-streaked cheek. His scent envelops them, trying to wipe out the harsh smell of the alpha who took him, marking his pup as his. 

Sotto snuggles up against him, curled in his lap. He holds his injured hand close to his stomach, the wound still bleeding. 

Hisoka arrives a moment later, dropping to his knees and taking Sotto’s face in his hands. His pup looks up at him with bright, teary eyes, but he’s smiling – after all this, he’s still smiling – and Hisoka drops his forehead to rest against Sotto’s. 

“Knew you’d come,” breathes Sotto, his voice soft as dandelion fluff. “Knew you’d find me.”

“There is nowhere you can go that I will not follow,” growls Hisoka. “Not even beneath the wings of death itself. I will always draw you home.”

Gon drinks in his scent: candy floss and copper coins. The harshness of his anger is gone. He’s rubbing his mark on his pup, making it entirely clear who his sire is. Sotto relaxes against him, comforted by their markings, by Hisoka’s promise. 

Gon pulls his son’s hand carefully away from his stomach, looking at the stub of his finger cut cleanly off at the joint. He rips his shirt and wraps it around the bleeding wound, anger still burning under the surface of his thoughts. 

Killua arrives then, face anxious. “Gon – is he…?”

Sotto looks up. “Uncle Killua?”

Gon, face beside Sotto’s, ensconced in their protective scents, nods. “He’s okay.”

“Let’s get him back – it’s only been a couple of hours. They can reattach his finger.”

He looks down to the blood-soaked strip of shirt. He remembers Killua saying that before, but the words had been so distant, so meaningless. This time he focuses on them. “Really?”

“Yeah. C’mon.”

Gon gets to his feet lifting Sotto with him. His son squirms in his arms – “Dad, I can walk!” but he holds him tight. 

Turning, he sees they’ve come more than half a kilometer from the house; he covered the distance in a space without time, without thought. 

Killua’s still looking at him as they make their return journey across the field towards the house. “Gon, your nen… it’s gone again.”

Gon blinks. His memory of coming out here is hazy, dark and dull-edged. He remembers seeing Killua and Hisoka’s auras for the first time in years. Remembers strength flowing through him like a pounding river; immense, absolute.

Remembers utter, insurmountable emptiness punctuated only by the certainty of revenge. 

“Uncle Killua, Dad doesn’t have any nen,” pipes up Sotto. 

Gon looks down at him, at his son’s bright eyes and confident face. “That’s right,” he says, tucking his chin over Sotto’s brow, his hair tickling Gon’s throat. “It’s not who I am anymore.”

  
***

On the way back across the field Sotto tells them that he was kept tied up in the kitchen, but that as he was released and re-tied to eat and go to the bathroom, he learned to stretch the rope. Finally, when Silk left to mail her final gruesome package to Hisoka, he shimmied out of the ropes and escaped.

“I was gonna walk back to town through the fields,” he says. “She might’a found me on the road. But I was still crossing the field when I saw her come back, so I hid.”

“Wise,” praises Hisoka, his narrowed eyes glowing in the afternoon sun. 

“I wanted to fight her. I did! But she had a knife, and she was so, so angry…” he falls silent and snuggles his face against Gon’s chest and Gon tightens his grip.

“You did exactly right, Sotto. Nothing that happened is your fault. Nothing.”

“She said Father killed her mate. So she was going to kill me. But I knew you would come, and Father would stop her.”

“You should give Gon more credit,” replies Hisoka softly.

Sotto looks up at him, blinking. 

“She’ll never hurt you again,” says Gon. “She was miserable and in pain and alone. But still… I can’t forgive her.”

They’re growing close to the house now; they cut down through the field towards the car, not up by the porch. 

“You three go back to town,” says Killua when they reach the car. Gon puts Sotto down and watches Hisoka tuck him into the back seat. Killua’s looking back towards the house. Towards Silk’s body. 

“I’ll stay here and take care of things. I can run back, or hitch.”

Gon looks at his best friend. He can feel the tension between them now, Killua wary and ashamed, Gon uncertain. “Killua… without you we wouldn’t have found him. Thank you.”

Killua blinks, then gives a weak smile. “Gon – you know you don’t have to thank me. If you forgive me, that’s enough.”

He shakes his head gently. “There’s nothing to forgive. We both acted on instinct, that’s all. You wanted to help, I know.”

“I’m just glad that bastard showed up,” sighs Killua, glancing at Hisoka.

“He always knows when I need him. Always,” says Gon.

Killua swallows. “Were you two… are you…”

“We’re okay. We’ll be okay.”

Killua nods. “You’d better get Sotto back to the Arena; they’re pros at emergency surgery there.”

Gon opens the passenger door, gets in. Behind him Killua turns and heads up the driveway.

“Well?” says Hisoka, starting the engine.

“Let’s go home.”

TO BE CONCLUDED

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thanks everyone for all the comments. I've really been enjoying reading everyone's theories and ideas (although some of you apparently think I am a monster, XD). 
> 
> Just in case people don't know this, you can reattach fingers up to several hours after they're severed, especially in children. If you encounter this (which I sincerely hope you don't), keep the finger and take it with you to the hospital. 
> 
> Finally, looking forward to wrapping this one up in the next update.


	11. Promises

After Sotto goes through surgery and is discharged with a thick bandage and a finger splint, Gon and Hisoka bring their pup home. 

Sotto’s more than half-asleep from the pain-killers, snuggled warm and heavy in Gon’s arms, and he doesn’t notice the destruction of the apartment. Gon carries him straight through to his room and tucks him in with his favourite stuffed animal. He sits on the side of his bed, stroking Sotto’s bob-length hair, until he falls asleep and after. 

His son’s pale face is shadowed purple in the soft light, the roundness in his cheeks that will melt off when he hits his teenage years endearing. His lashes are long and dark, his mouth slack in sleep. Gon can’t stop touching him, running his hand over the thick hair, reassuring himself. His pup is safe, is home. 

Eventually he hears a soft step behind him and looks up. Hisoka is standing there, glancing down over his shoulders, eyes a flat yellow in the dull light. He watches the slow rise and fall of Sotto’s chest, the soft pulse of his heart in the hollow of his throat. Gon can see him taking it all in. Then, satisfied, his eyes drop to Gon.

“Will you stay here tonight?”

Gon nods. He can’t tear himself away. Not so soon. His heart is still raw with fear and pain. 

Hisoka runs his hand down Gon’s arm, warm skin against warm skin. His grip is soft but with the promise of steel if refused. He picks up Gon’s wrist and pulls it upwards. “There’s still blood on your hand,” he murmurs, voice low. 

Gon looks down. His nails are dark with it, specks on his fingers and palm. 

“Your rage was beautiful,” Hisoka whispers in his ear, thumb rubbing over his palm. Ever since Killua shocked it years ago the skin there hardly picks up on sensation, Hisoka’s touch just a faint dull pressure. “But beautiful like a sunrise – far too large and distant to fully appreciate or enjoy. You took no pleasure in your revenge, and that is a tragedy.”

Gon shivers. “Let’s not talk about it now,” he says. He gets up. “I’ll wash and change. Will you stay? Please?”

Hisoka looks from his mate to his pup. “Very well,” he agrees. Gon brushes his cheek against Hisoka’s shoulder as he passes, leaving behind a soft scent.

  
***

He takes a quick shower, scrubbing under his nails until the blood comes out. He dresses in loose flannel pyjama bottoms and a tank top, towels his hair dry, and emerges.

When he comes back in to Sotto’s room Hisoka is lying on his side on the bed beside his pup, his eyes closed. Gon had insisted the emergency room check him out as well and they had found broken ribs and some internal bleeding that was already healing. No treatment available would help him recover faster. 

Gon knows that, even asleep, Hisoka is at some level aware of his presence. He doesn’t bother to wake his mate, simply rounds the far side of the bed and sits down on the floor, back to the bed; there’s not room for three in the single. This close he can hear both Sotto and Hisoka’s soft breaths, can smell their presences. 

He closes his eyes and lets sleep wash over him.

  
***

The next morning when Gon accompanies Sotto out into the apartment, the boy stops and stares. “Wow – what happened? Did Father get in a fight?”

“In a way,” agrees Gon, not eager to get into the details. “We’ll get it cleaned up.”

Hisoka, who had risen earlier, is already seated at the table with an empty, dirty plate in front of him. He’s browsing a home decorating website on Gon’s laptop. “We’ll have to replace the floors. Might as well do the cupboards and countertops. Maple is terribly dated.”

Gon finds the fixings for French Toast on the counter – Sotto’s favourite – and sets about making it. It’s hard without the extra surface of the island to spread out his supplies on. “Won’t the Arena decide?”

Since he’s been living with Hisoka, they’ve never done any serious renovations. He has no idea how the Arena orchestrates them for its floor masters. 

“We will decide, they will supply,” states Hisoka. Gon can’t tell whether that’s the way it is, or whether Hisoka is declaring that that’s the way it _will_ be. 

Sotto comes to stand beside him, looking at the different pictures of flooring on the screen. He turns and stares at the hole in the hardwood, cracked cement below, where Gon had beaten Hisoka down. “Did you win?” he asks of Hisoka.

“I did not,” admits the magician. “But it was a _delightful_ defeat.” He reaches out and runs sharp-tipped fingers through Sotto’s short hair. “What will you do with this?” he asks, changing the topic. 

“I want to put it up! Like you and Dad!”

“Mm, it requires patience.”

“I’m patient!”

Hisoka smiles at the blatant lie. “Well, perhaps we could visit a barber. Certainly something must be done.”

Sotto nods, unaware of the undercurrent of the conversation, of Hisoka’s possessive nature. Of his refusal to let another shape his pup in any way. 

Gon flips the French toast and pours in some more egg mix.

  
***

Killua comes by that afternoon to say goodbye.

“You could stay longer,” says Gon, while Sotto’s hugging his uncle. 

Killua gives him a smile. “Nah. You need some time together. I’ll come by in a couple of months – the water parks will be open by then, and the circus… we can have an awesome summer vacation, right kiddo?”

“Yeah!” cheers Sotto. 

Hisoka, hanging back, says nothing. Gon’s sure he hasn’t forgotten Killua’s scent on him, hasn’t forgotten that Killua was the one Gon called when his mate left him alone. But he says nothing, and Gon is grateful. 

“Killua, really… thank you. I’d have been totally lost without you.”

“You’re sure you’re okay now? I mean…” he trails off, the smile slipping.

Gon nods. “I’m okay. The person, the _thing_ I was… it’s gone now.”

Hisoka shifts but says nothing. His scent catches in Gon’s nose, like syrup and steel. 

“Don’t let it come back, Gon. I mean it. You’re strong enough without it.”

Gon smiles. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

Killua blinks. “’Course I do,” he says, softly. Before Gon can answer he catches Sotto by the shoulders and pushes him back, ducking down to lightly knock their foreheads together. “You take care now. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Bye, Uncle Killua!”

He straightens and waves. “See you later Gon. Hisoka.”

“Bye Killua! Thanks!”

And then he’s gone. Sotto runs off to turn on his video game console, feet pattering over the uneven floor. Gon watches him go, a part of him wanting to follow even though he knows Sotto is perfectly safe here. 

Hisoka presses up against him from behind. “It’s still part of you,” he says, quietly. “That absolute need for revenge. It will never disappear, will remain forever.”

Gon leans back against him. “Of course it will,” he agrees. “Killua knows that too, even if he doesn’t want to believe it. It’s like… like a door I can step through, when it’s unlocked. On the other side is nothing but revenge – no love, no joy, no fear for my life or anyone else’s. My nen’s there too, locked up tight.” He looks up, catches Hisoka’s golden eyes. “But I don’t need it anymore. Everything I have, I have because it’s gone. How could I regret that?”

Hisoka leans in, presses his lips to Gon’s mark. Contentment and bliss flood through him, his body softening against his mate. Hisoka’s arms slip over his shoulders, holding him close. Gon sighs. “I should thank you too. For coming back when you did.”

“Well. There was very little murdering left for me to do in any case,” replies Hisoka, smiling, his breath hot against Gon’s neck. “And you know I love it when you beg for me.”

“Hisoka?”

“Mm?”

“Take me to bed.”

  
***

They make love slowly, languorously, mouths tasting every inch of skin, fingers feeling every familiar curve and plane. Hisoka is generous with his affection, his eyes playful as he licks his tongue over Gon’s cock, his nails digging into Gon’s hips.

Gon can sense Hisoka’s admiration, his lust at the resolve Gon showed. At the darkness within him, brought so suddenly to the foreground. He props Gon’s hips up with pillows and uses his nen-fingers to open Gon slowly, deliciously, while he worships Gon’s prick with his mouth. 

Hisoka has never been one for tender, appreciative sex, his usual desires sharper and harsher. Now Gon shivers as he draws out every ounce of pleasure, as he curls his fingers inside Gon to stroke his prostate and licks under the foreskin. 

He pulls his fingers out before Gon can come, kisses him deeply and then rolls him over, entering from behind. His chest is flush with Gon’s back, his arms caging Gon in even as he thrusts in. His rhythm is slow, agonizingly gentle, and Gon pants desperately for the pounding he’s used to. 

“Don’t you like it like this?” purrs the magician. “This is what your lovely Killua would give you. He thinks you can be broken like glass, that you need coddling.”

“I don’t – you know I don’t,” grits out Gon, pleasure building in him agonizingly slowly, his core throbbing hungrily. “Harder! Hisoka!”

Hisoka laughs into his ear and slams his hips home; Gon gasps, then moans. “Ngh – like that. Yes – _yes!_ ”

Hisoka unleashes his true strength, his hunger, pounding Gon into the mattress. Gon digs his fingers into the pillow as he climaxes, his whole body tensing, his entrance tightening around Hisoka. The alpha runs his teeth over Gon’s mark and he cries out, the last of his orgasm milked from him. 

His mate comes soon after, spilling with a sound of delight. He lies down as he is, still inside Gon, his body pressing him down. He smells of arousal and possession and pride; rich, heady scents. 

Gon reaches out and weaves their fingers together.

  
***

Time passes. Hisoka, by far more interested in aesthetics than Gon, makes plans about the apartment renovation regardless of expense or difficulty. Sotto visits a barber and has his hair trimmed short so that he can style it into messy, twisted tufts. With his hair cut away from his face his eyes are more prominent, the yellow shining brightly.

Gon still worries. He worries all the time, even though he or Hisoka now take Sotto to school and back, even though Hisoka’s teaching him how to crush a windpipe with a blow, even though he’s staying closer to home of his own volition. 

There are nightmares, Sotto waking in the middle of the night and coming into their room to make sure they’re still there, that he’s not alone. Gon’s own sleep is worse, his dreams unspecific but filled with dark emptiness, with a search for something he can’t find. When he wakes, breathless and sweaty, he crawls out of bed and slips into Sotto’s room, sits for hours watching his pup sleep, until the sun rises or Hisoka comes to find him and bring him back. 

Gon knows they’ll get over it. That the kidnapping will pass like a dark ship beyond their immediate recall, beyond their sight. But he also knows, somewhere deep down, it won’t be forgotten.

  
***

A week after recovering Sotto, they go out for a picnic. Gon insists on it, packing sandwiches and lemonade and desserts.

The weather is shifting closer to summer every day and today is no exception, the sun bright overhead, the air warm. Sotto has a new hat to keep the sun off his fair skin. 

His finger is still recovering, but the surgeon says there’s no complications, no rejection. It may be a little stiff but the scar of its separation will be almost unnoticeable. 

They eat lunch together on a tartan blanket, Sotto eagerly cramming down all his favourite sandwiches and leaving the others untouched for his parents. When they’re done eating he runs down to the shallow stream and starts looking for fish, paddling bare-foot in the water and turning over stones in his search.

Hisoka lies on his back on the grass, hands folded over his stomach, eyes narrow in the bright sun. Gon sits beside him, content. 

“You haven’t said anything more about blame,” says Hisoka, eventually, looking up at the blue sky above. Gon glances at him.

“Blame?”

“You made it quite clear when you came for me that the pup’s disappearance was my fault. That in fighting challengers to the death, I make ruthless enemies.”

Gon links his arms over his knees, watching Sotto jump back and forth. “I know. And part of it was just that I was so frantic to get him back. I know that everyone who fights you makes the choice to forfeit their lives willingly. But… part of me _does_ think that, Hisoka. I would never ask you to change who you are or what you do. I know you’ll keep fighting in the Arena just like you always have. I know you’d do it even if I asked you not to.” He sighs, at a loss. 

“There is only one clear path forward,” says Hisoka. Gon glances at him, eyebrows raised. “The pup will have to get stronger. We can’t be guarding him every hour of every day. And I can’t guarantee that he won’t be targeted again. We can only teach him to protect himself.”

“Is that enough?” asks Gon quietly.

“It will have to be. He will be old enough to begin learning nen soon. And then, no one will dare touch him.”

Despite his anxiousness Gon smiles at his mate’s confidence. A son with nen… it will be something to see. 

“And his sibling?” asks Gon. “What about it?”

Hisoka glances up at him. “What sibling?”

Gon’s hand slips down to his belly; Hisoka’s eyes widen and he sits up. “You…”

“This little one won’t be able to protect itself for a long time,” Gon says. 

Hisoka’s scent turns powerful, full of possession and protection. “No one will dare touch it, either. Because I will be there… and so will you.” 

Gon leans over, eyes slipping closed, and kisses his mate. 

“Da-ad!” groans Sotto, from downstream. Gon breaks away and laughs. 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support as always everyone! I've really enjoyed the active commenting/speculations/conversations that have been happening. Thank you all for inspiring me to keep going! :D


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